


Arlathan's Treasure

by sophisticus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, National Treasure au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 50,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13139658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophisticus/pseuds/sophisticus
Summary: When Delilah Lavellan hears a tale of a hidden stash of Dalish literature, art, and technology hidden deep under the catacombs of Halamshiral, she passes it off as a fanciful myth. But one tenacious elf convinces her, along with Scout Lace Harding and Lieutenant Sutherland that there's no harm in looking.The culmination of my 2017 Nanowrimo efforts.





	1. Rift Duty

**Author's Note:**

> Posting chapter one early as a christmas present for Micah, who I can always count on to message me at 2am yelling about my chapter updates. Love you!
> 
> This is also my 20th fic. Go me!

“Yah!” Delilah’s staff twisted through the air with a flick of her wrist, slicing the blade expertly through the torso of a charging shade. It screamed and flailed its arms dramatically as it disintegrated away, leaving a rotten, ashy smell behind.  Before it had disappeared, she’d already spun around and leapt at another demon, taking it down just as swiftly.

Behind her, Harding’s bow fired off rapidly, peppering the demons with arrows, while Sutherland watched her back, his sword cutting their enemies down as easily as paper. The three of them had only been fighting side-by-side for a few months, but had quickly fallen into a rhythm that worked well enough. Just as she knew they would, they kept the remaining couple demons off her back as she sealed the Fade rift with practiced ease. With the rift sealed, the demons were picked off easily.

“Another one down,” Harding remarked. Delilah nodded, panting slightly, while Sutherland knelt to wipe demon blood from his sword on the grass.

“How many are left by this point?” he asked, straightening. The three of them drew close and Harding pulled a folded map from her pocket, unfolding it for them all to see. Her finger traced over the worn paper.

“We’ve got all the reported rifts in Ferelden sealed,” she said. “Then we sealed the couple of rifts in the Free Marches with help from the Kirkwall guard. And we’ve sealed three of the four rifts that Orlais claimed to still have.” Harding’s finger moved from the red inked-in circle just outside Verchiel, where they currently stood, and stopped on a similar mark just south of Halamshiral. “According to my last report from Lady Nightingale, this should be the last rift in southern Thedas.”

“In _southern_ Thedas?” Sutherland questioned with a raised eyebrow. He’d come a long way from the stuttering, nervous young man he’d been when Delilah had first met him in the Herald’s Rest tavern. Where he used to be unsure, in need of instruction, now he was more self-assured and confident in his experience over the past couple of years. His swordsmanship had improved similarly; he wasn’t on the level of warriors like Cassandra or Blackwall, but it was good enough to make him a valuable asset on this mission. He’d been delighted when Delilah personally asked him to escort her and Scout Harding, and been eager to demonstrate his worth.

Scout Harding, conversely, was a little more reserved about suddenly being on the front of one of the Inquisition’s main mission efforts, but after discussing it with Leliana, had agreed to join.

Delilah had originally wanted to go about sealing the remaining rifts on her own, but after a lengthy argument with her advisors, Cullen in particular, she acknowledged that it was safer and quicker to have backup, especially when she’d be gone so long and so far from Skyhold.

After discussion with her advisors and listening to some input from her closest companions – namely, Cassandra and Varric – she made the decision to go in a small group with rounded abilities: Delilah with her magic, Harding with her ability to pick locks and reach tight places, and Sutherland for his sword arm and tank-like fighting style. While they hadn’t yet reached the same synchronicity that Delilah had with Cassandra, Varric, and Dorian, the three of them had quickly adjusted to one another’s fighting styles and found a system that worked for them.

“As far as we know, the few that had spread to countries like Nevarra and Antiva grew weak after the Breach was sealed and seemed to close on their own,” Delilah explained. “As for any rifts in Tevinter or the Anderfels, we don’t know. I’d assume the same thing happened there, provided nobody tried to tamper with them. They’re even further away from the Breach than the rest.”

“So once we seal this last one, we can go back to Skyhold?” Sutherland asked hopefully. Delilah gave him a quick smile. While he’d been ready and willing to join her, it had been four months since they’d first set out. Even Delilah, who was used to long expeditions out to various parts of Thedas on behalf of the Inquisition, was deeply looking forward to sleeping in her own bed again.

“Should we head back to Verchiel, spend the night there?” Harding offered, jerking her thumb back in the general direction of the town. “It might be a bit cramped, but we could make do. Unless you’d rather be back on the road again, Inquisitor?”

Despite the polite tone of the query, both hers and Sutherlands’ faces betrayed their distaste at the prospect of immediately hitting the road after the five-hour walk it had taken to reach the rift. Delilah let out a tired laugh and shook her head. “No, we’ll go back into town,” she decided. The other two’s shoulders sagged with relief. “We’ll get a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, then stock up on provisions and head out tomorrow morning.”

“As you say, Inquisitor,” Sutherland declared. He stepped aside, and with a grin and a short bow gestured towards the town. “After you, miladies.”

This earned a chuckle from both Harding and Delilah, who marched out in turn over the short, scraggy-grassed plain.

 

They spent the evening in the inn’s tavern area, eating a delicious dinner that the grateful townsfolk of Verchiel were only too happy to provide. They also provided a small suite for the three of them to spend the night in – the suite was small by typical Orlesian standards, but for Delilah seemed to have more than enough space for the three of them.

They rose early in the morning and headed towards the market. Sutherland headed to the food stalls to see if he could find any seasonings – the man was, surprisingly, an incredibly competent cook. With just a brace of hares, foraged wild onions and mushrooms, a potato, and a handful of salt and spices, could whip up a hearty and filling stew that’d give them the energy to continue on. Harding, in comparison, made her way to the smithy to buy more arrows as well as a small jar of oil that was perfect for maintaining armor and blades.

While her companions shopped, Delilah stopped inside a tiny bookstore. Shelves lined the walls, stretching all the way to the ceiling, and appeared to cover every subject from blacksmithing to herbology to dwarven romance novels. Behind the dingy sales counter, a thin man with a thinner mustache seemed busy picking under his nails with a letter opener.

He looked up as she entered, his ugly little Orlesian hat bobbing at the movement, and he gave a poorly concealed sneer at her vallaslin, pointed ears, and Dalish attire. “Can I help you?” he sniffed, in the usual haughty Orlesian accent.

“Yes, I was wondering if you had any maps of the area?” Delilah asked, ignoring his staring. After spending two years as Inquisitor, and enduring all of the resulting ties and interactions with the Ferelden monarchy and the Orlesian Empire, she was used to being at the center of often unfriendly attention. “I’ve only got one of the empire as a whole, and could use something with more detail.”

The man sat up with an irritated grunt, evidently annoyed at actually having to do some work. “I might. Hold on.” He disappeared into the dusty back room, and for a couple moments all she could hear was faint shuffling. When he finally reappeared, he held a single folded sheet of paper, upon which she could make out the corner of a map. “I’ve only got one with words, I hope you can make do,” he said nastily, not bothering to hide his sneer this time.

Delilah raised a brow. “Aren’t maps supposed to have words?”

“Well yes, but they don’t do you any good if you can’t read common,” he said dismissively, gesturing towards her vallaslin. “You’re no servant, so, you know.”

“’You know’?” Delilah repeated in a dangerously quiet voice.

The bookkeeper was already turning away, setting the map on the counter. “Knife-ears don’t bother learning much of the language to speak, let alone read, unless they’re a servant.”

Before the man could blink, Delilah had pulled out the small dagger from her belt and flicked it through the air. It thudded into the wooden beam behind the man, quivering right next to his ear. He froze, watery eyes wide and face pallid.

She swore to herself – she’d been aiming to knock that stupid hat off his head – but she supposed this could work even better to her advantage. She strode over to him until they were practically nose-to-nose. “Lucky for you I’m in a good mood today,” she said breezily. “An elf with a poorer temperament might actually have put a knife in your ear for using that slur.” She casually jerked the dagger out of the wood, causing the man to flinch, and slid it back into its sheath on her belt with the same placid smile on her face.  “Now, how much for the map? The Inquisition would be appreciative of whatever help you have to offer.”

At the mention of the Inquisition, the man’s eyes widened further, and she saw the exact moment he realized who she was. “Your worship!” he gasped, fumbling over himself. “Please, forgive me of my callousness and repulsiveness. I assure you I meant no harm, I didn’t realize you weren’t actually one of the kni- the elves camped outside of the city-”

“How much for the map?” Delilah interrupted, suddenly feeling drained. She’d almost rather deal with sneers and muttered insults than the groveling of those only interested in lining their coffers with Inquisition gold.

A minute later, after yet more groveling and platitudes and such, and the assurance of no, three sovereigns for a five sovereign map would be more than enough, the discount was for the fact the _Inquisitor herself_ visited his humble little shop, et cetera… She emerged from the shop, map in hand and a scowl on her face, just as Sutherland and Harding turned a corner and approached, each carrying a small parcel.

“Did you find anything?” Harding asked, nodding towards the folded parchment. Delilah nodded.

“A more detailed map of the area. If nothing else, it couldn’t hurt,” she explained. “I also found out about a Dalish clan apparently camped nearby. Do you think we have enough time to stop by, see if they’re open to outsiders? It’d be good to be among some of my people again.”

“I don’t see why not,” Sutherland replied. He put away their purchased goods in his pack and straightened again. “We ought to get going, though, if we have all the supplies we’re gonna need. We’re wasting daylight.”

“He’s right,” Harding agreed. “Are you ready to hit the road, Inquisitor?”

“Yes, let’s go.”

 

As they walked, Delilah and Scout Harding discussed Inquisition matters. Harding regularly sent and received letters from Leliana, who kept them updated on what was going on, as well as asked Delilah for her instruction on how certain things should be handled. After nearly three years of being part of the Inquisition, and well over two years of running it, she was well-versed in the organization’s mechanics, and liked to think she had an impression of her own on it all.

“Is recruitment still down?” Delilah asked her.

“Yes. With Corypheus dead, there’s not as much of a reason for people to pick up arms and march out,” Harding answered, perusing the letter Leliana had sent by messenger raven. “Despite this, Leliana suggests we send home the soldiers who left their farms, so that agriculture can pick back up again.”

“I tend to agree, the force we have at the moment is more than necessary to track down stray demons, Venatori, and red templars,” Delilah answered. “Besides, even though they’ll be returning to their farms, they’ll still benefit from Cullen’s training to defend their homes. Speaking of Cullen…”

The scout gave her a knowing smile. “He’s fine. Leliana says he seems to be completely recovered from his lyrium addiction, and is busy helping other templars who wish to break their own addiction.”

Delilah shook her head. “How Leliana manages to maintain some semblance of remaining the Inquisition’s spymaster from the Sunburst throne, I’ll never understand. I’m not sure I’ll ever genuinely like her, but I have to admit that the woman is a force of nature.”

“That she is.”

The two were interrupted by Sutherland, who stopped just ahead of them and pointed towards the horizon. “Is it just me or do those look like those Dalish land-ships?”

“You mean aravels?” Delilah said, peering around him. She squinted. Sure enough, in the distance, were the tell-tale sails of the aravels of a Dalish clan.

“Do you think we can make it there before dark?” Harding asked hesitantly. “I don’t want to sneak up on them when it’s not light enough for them to see exactly where and who we are. I don’t fancy waking up tomorrow with an arrow in my chest.”

“It’s a fair concern. We’ll try, but if it looks like we won’t make it before dusk, we’ll hold off and wait till morning.”

It was still a few hours before they reached the outer area of the clan’s sentries, but the daylight was already fading into a ruddy sunset before the sentry made himself known. Despite there being no discernable cover to hide behind, the archer seemingly stepped out of nowhere, bow drawn and his body tense. “State your business!” he barked in the common tongue, his accent a little choppy.

Delilah raised her hands in surrender, showing she bore no arms against them. “Aneth ara,” she said, switching to elvhen. She continued, still in her native language, “I’m Delilah of Clan Lavellan, leader of the Inquisition. I wanted to visit a clan of my people.”

The elf’s eyebrows rose, though the tip of his arrow didn’t stray from where it was aimed. “You’re the Inquisitor?” he exclaimed, also in elvhen, disbelief evident in his expression.

“I swear on the blood of the Dales that runs through my veins.”

He finally lowered the bow, releasing the tension. “And your companions?” he asked, switching back to the common tongue for their benefit. Harding stepped forward, stopping at a respectful distance.

“I’m Scout Harding of the Inquisition, associate of Lady Nightingale,” she explained. She gestured to Sutherland. “Lieutenant Sutherland of the Inquisition. If you and your Keeper would permit it, we’d like to rest in your camp tonight and learn what we can about the area from your scouts. If we’re not welcome, we won’t bother you again.”

He considered them carefully for a long moment before finally nodding. “Let’s go,” he said, jerking his head back towards the clan camp. Delilah shared a quick smile with Harding and Sutherland, then followed the scout as he set off.


	2. An Introduction

A few short minutes later they reached the camp perimeter. The clan had found a shallow depression to settle in for a while, with the aravels around the edge to provide some shelter from the intermittent wind. A fire was already blazing in the center, with what looked like ram roasting above it. Around the fire, the elves of the clan milled about, repairing tools or just resting, but their chatter stopped the moment Delilah and her companions entered the circle. Delilah held her head high, baring her vallaslin and pointed ears for all to see, and an older woman stood and approached, leaning on her staff.

“These people are from the Inquisition, and this one claims to be the Inquisitor,” the scout explained in an undertone. The Keeper nodded in acknowledgement and stepped forward.

Up close, Deliliah could see the silver streaking her black hair, and the fine lines that creased her face. Her vallaslin was the traditional gold filigree of the Keepers. “Andaran atishan,” she said, greeting them with a gracious inclination of her head. In the common tongue, so that Harding and Sutherland could understand as well, she said, “Welcome to Clan Eldarin. I knew the Inquisitor was one of the People, but I admit I never expected a personal visit. May I ask why you’ve come?”

“We’re traveling through the area and heard of your clan, haren, and I wanted to meet you all,” Delilah explained. “When I travel I make a point to visit any clans I come across, to make sure everything’s alright and to see if there’s anything that we can do to help. Assuming our help is welcome, of course.”

“A good habit to have, though I suppose you must’ve come across at least one clan who isn’t so receptive to outsiders,” the Keeper said gravely.

“No clan I’ve met is truly accepting of outsiders, though it’s possible to slowly earn their trust,” Delilah replied. “But no, I’ve yet to meet a clan who is actively hostile to strangers.”

The Keeper harrumphed. “You’re luckier than others I’ve met, then. Come, please sit with us. You’re welcome to share our fire and our food, so long as you keep your weapons sheathed and stay respectful.”

“We’d be honored. We have some food of our own; would you be alright with us sharing our food with the clan as well?” Harding asked politely.

“Inquisitor Lavellan and her companions are our guests tonight, so we will feed you. Your generosity is appreciated, child of the Stone, but unnecessary,” the Keeper said, a little more softly with a smile. Harding accepted this without pressing the matter.

They settled around the fire. By now, the sunset had faded into the soft purples and grays of evening, and the air had a faint chill to it. The other elves in the clan greeted them graciously but a little warily, which Delilah thought was understandable. A couple young men pulled the ram from the fire and began divvying out portions of the rich, steaming meat, using small wooden plates worn from use. Delilah accepted hers with a murmur of thanks, and as was tradition, waited until everyone had been served before she began eating.

“May I ask what business the Inquisition has out here?” the Keeper asked her quietly. Across the clearing, a few of the elves retrieved musical instruments from one of the aravels and began playing quiet, lilting music. Delilah hummed softly, the melodies simultaneously familiar and alien. A result of the clans only converging once a decade, she assumed. “We’d heard the news of Corypheus’ defeat, and assumed the Inquisition would be disbanded afterwards.”

“We’re working on finishing stabilizing the region,” Delilah admitted. “There were a few fade rifts that needed to be sealed still. And no matter how many we slay, there seems to always be more demons, red templars, and Venatori.”

“This is true. We’ve run into our share of them as well,” the Keeper said. “Thankfully, none of our hunters have fallen to them.”

“I’m glad to hear it. They’re vicious and persistent enemies.”

The tempo of the music picked up, and Delilah swayed, eyes half-shut. The Keeper stood and tapped the end of her staff on the ground. Immediately the attention of everyone turned to her. The music quieted, but didn’t slow.

“Tonight we are joined by agents of the Inquisition and Inquisitor Lavellan herself, who – despite her obligations to the cause of defeating Corypheus and defending Thedas – has remained true to her heritage and defended and offered aid to any of the Elvhen in her path,” the Keeper said. Her clear voice carried across the tramped-down clearing, and several of the elves nodded as she spoke. “We are honored to welcome them to our hearthfire and to share our bounty of food. May our friendship endure for many years to come, with Elgar’nan’s blessing.”

The Keeper raised her hand, and from her fingertips flew golden sparks which hovered in the air for several seconds before fading away. The rest of the clan raised their drinks and cheerfully echoed the blessing before their cries settled into the warm babble of a family come together for a meal. The lilting music returned to its previous pitch, giving the clearing a warm, relaxing, and comforting atmosphere.

“Thank you,” Delilah said to the Keeper when she sat once more. “It’s good to see a clan of my people doing so well.”

“With the Orlesian civil war over, there are less humans around to run into or be attacked by,” the older woman replied. “Andruil and Sylaise have blessed our hunts for game and herbs. Life isn’t easy by any means, but right now it’s not quite as hard to get by as it has been in the recent years.”

“Will Clan Eldarin be joining the Arlathvhen in two years? I understand it’s being held in the Wildervale swamps this time,” Delilah asked.

“We will make the attempt. Crossing the Waking Sea is quicker but much more difficult than circumventing it completely, and it gives me disquiet to know we’ll be so close to the Tevinter Imperium…but we will try.”

Across from them, a young woman rose and began to sing, her voice clear and sweet as morning dew.

“Melava inan enansal ir su aravel tu elvaral,

u na emma abelas in elgar sa vir mana.

in tu setheneran din emma na lath sulevin

lath araval ena arla ven tu vir mahvir,

melana ‘nehn enasal ir sa lethalin.”

Everyone applauded at the final quavering note, some openly weeping. The woman bowed and sat once more. Sutherland and Harding looked a little lost, and the latter leaned over towards Delilah to whisper in her ear. “What was that song about? My elvish is a little rusty.”

Delilah wiped a tear from her own eye before she answered. “Enduring and emerging from sorrow and loss,” she replied in a low voice. It was a song she’d learned by heart many years ago, but had taken on a whole other layer of meaning for her following her father’s death.

A few other elves stood and in turn sang another song or told one of the stories about the Creators that all Dalish carried close to their heart. Delilah wondered if Sutherland and Harding truly understood how honored they were, to be welcomed as such into the heart of something that the People held so dear to their heritage and identity.

The current singer finally sat, his own tale finished being sung, and another stood in his turn. Immediately, Delilah could tell there was something different about this man. He dressed differently than the rest of the clan, in long loose cloth of muted reds and grays. That itself wasn’t really so unusual – it wasn’t as if the Dalish had any particular dress code, aside from the general elven aesthetic that arose from their construction methods and available materials – but his light brown face also bore no vallaslin.

In clan Lavellan, at least, vallaslin wasn’t required of any elf when they came of age at sixteen, just like it wasn’t a requirement to be married shortly thereafter, but it was so traditional and common that to refuse vallaslin was practically unheard of. Upon closer inspection, his up-tilted eyes and round lips didn’t seem to match the appearance of any of the rest of the clan, and Delilah wondered if perhaps he’d been a city elf who recently escaped to the Dalish.

“I offer now a story of the Elvhen as given to me by my mother, and her mother before hers, and her mother before hers,” he said. His voice was low and oddly inflected, as if neither the common tongue nor elvhen were his first language. “It is not of the elves of the time of Arlathan, nor of the elves of the time of the Creators and their rise to power, in the Elvhenan. It is of the elves of the Dales, the elves whose grandparents and great grandparents freed themselves from the tyranny and slavery of the dread Tevinter Imperium. This story is of the elves who, comfortable in their home given by the humans, would turn a blind eye to the same humans who would then rip it away from them; who would burn and rape and murder and pillage the People simply because we refused to bow to the humans’ Maker, to the humans’ Andraste.”

The man paused, firelight reflecting on his dark eyes as he scanned the audience. Delilah was convinced his gaze lingered on her the longest. Seemingly satisfied that he had everyone’s attention, he took a breath and continued.

“The elf Shartan may have died in the human Andraste’s Exalted March against the Tevinter Imperium’s tyranny, but his efforts allowed the biggest exodus in Thedosian history. Hundreds of thousands of elves, some too weak or sick from the abuses of slavery and blood magic to walk, undertook the Long Walk across the whole continent for nothing more than a single promise – the promise of freedom. When we finally arrived at the Promised Land, impoverished and weak, we took the land and called it Halamshiral: the end of the journey. And there we built a magnificent city, one that is said to have rivaled and surpassed even the greatest human cities of the time, one where elves of every color, age, gender, and creed could come together to pursue knowledge, science, histories, beauty, literature, art, and faith.

“Halamshiral reached such heights of splendor that humans and even dwarves desired to study in our halls, as was only natural of them to seek such. All of the peoples of Thedas were eventually graciously, if warily, welcomed to research, to study, and to collaborate with other scholars. To house such knowledge and those who would seek it, the city was filled with galleries, concert halls, scientific research centers, and markets where trade from all over the continent converged. But the greatest creation of all was the Grand Library of Halamshiral. It was a combined library and museum, dedicated to artifacts and art saved from the fall of Arlathan, as well as renaissance materials that were created during this rise of the Dales – the history of their egress from Tevinter, as written firsthand by those who made the journey; oral stories passed by word of mouth for generations beyond counting, being written down for the first time; new scientific discoveries, known for the first time since before the elves’ original subjugation, and so much more. It was singlehandedly the crowning achievement of the Elvhen in the entirety of living memory, then and now.

“As the elven culture once again rose in prominence and influence, we of the Dales enjoyed a new golden age, the likes of which we hadn’t seen since the days of Arlathan. But as is the nature of such things, it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t.”

The man’s voice broke, and for a moment the only sound was the low pop of a log in the fire. Although Delilah knew all of this, as did every Dalish child, she wondered at such a painful shared history being dragged out when the atmosphere had previously been so cheerful. After a long moment, he regained his composure and continued.

“By the time that the second Blight began and darkspawn began pouring south from deep in the Anderfels, the newly founded Orlesian Empire had already gotten on poor terms with the Dales. Some humans, thinking us weak after our time spent in slavery, rode into our lands seeking easy sport. They did not anticipate the valor and mercilessness of the Emerald Knights, those insurmountable warriors who ceaselessly patrolled our borders ensuring the safety of all those within. When the humans found that we were no easy prey, they began pressuring us to abandon our heritage, our Creators, and bow to the human Maker and their sainted Andraste. And when we refused to abandon our culture, our heritage, for their _comfort_ , they took to subterfuge.

“It was early in the unsolicited war that Orlais forced upon us. There were concerns that the humans would strike at our hearts before they engaged us in open and honest battle, but the harens of the time didn’t believe these concerns. They and the head librarians of Halamshiral never believed that the humans would destroy such a monumental and important piece of shared history – after all, after a few centuries, the library held knowledge gained by humans and dwarves as well as elves. Why would the humans sacrifice their own achievements just to strike a petty blow against the elvhen? Many argued against the head librarians’ decision against moving the more priceless artifacts to a more safe location – or at least, to not have them all in one place for the duration of the war – but a unified decision came far too late. Barely a year after actual battle broke out, in the dead of the night, Orlesian soldiers slipped into the city, leaving behind cold bodies and marble floors stained in blood. They crept into the Grand Library, and set it ablaze.

“It was a cold, tactical decision. The humans of Orlais had decided it was more important to destroy their enemies, all the way from their bodies to their culture, than to attempt to preserve such things.

“Many elves rushed into the blaze to save whatever they could. Hundreds lost their lives in the process, and the perpetrators slipped away under the cover of darkness. When the fire had finally been quelled and the ash settled over the city like a fine layer of dust, only the skeleton of what had been the magnificent beast of the Grand Library remained. Most everything inside had been reduced to ash. In just hours, a millennia of history and culture was lost. The precious few remaining artifacts were split up between the survivors so that they couldn’t be destroyed en masse ever again. These are the pieces of Elvhen culture that are kept sacred among the Dalish clans to this very day. Oh, if the elves of the Dales had done so just days earlier!”

The man threw his hands up to cover his face, and his whole body shook as if with an illness. He simply stood there for a moment, trembling from the force of his emotions. Likewise, Delilah felt the pain and the fury at the wholesale murder and betrayal her people had faced, just when they finally felt safe from millennia of oppression. It took a long moment, but the man finally lowered his hands. His expression, which moments ago had been filled with rage and despair, now showed a strange kind of bleak hope.

“And yet, for all of the hopelessness and misery of this tale, there remains a whisper of hope,” he said, his voice dropped to a husky rumble. “For in the decades of rising tension between Orlais and the Dales, there happened to be employed in the Grand Library one who never believed in the honor of the humans from the beginning. This junior librarian, nobody important enough in their superiors’ eyes to have their name or deeds recorded, seemed to be one of the very few who remembered the humans’ insatiable greed and ruthlessness from the days of Tevinter’s descent upon and subjugation of the sprawling city-state of Arlathan. As it became clear that the master librarians would make no move to protect the precious history of their race, this single junior librarian began sneaking beneath their masters, unseen.

“They accessed areas for which they didn’t have the necessary clearance, but didn’t let that stop them. Long before the war even began, they began stealing away art, music, literature – anything they could get away with, that wouldn’t be noticed. They took pieces that might not be popular, that likely wouldn’t be missed at first glance, but were still important pieces of Elven culture. They used illusion magic to make a duplicate of pieces, or would take the binding of an important book and place it around a less important book, to give the illusion that it remained. For years, this single junior librarian labored to save as much as they could, in the event that the humans proved their worst fears as reality. When the Orlesians destroyed the library and validated these fears, this junior librarian was one of those who lost their lives diving into the flames in a doomed attempt to save the rest.

“Nobody knows where the librarian hid the cache of pilfered artifacts. They left no written direction, no tangible evidence, and the only clues were believed to be given to the librarian’s lover, but nobody even knows if the lover truly existed. The only trail to the stash is the account of the librarian’s furtive actions, which survives only on the spoken word, passed to me from my mother, from her mother, from her mother’s mother. Somewhere beneath the city of Halamshiral lies the greatest discovery of the modern age, and the greatest discovery for all of elvenkind in all of recorded history. All someone has to do is look in the right place.”

Finally, the man fell silent. Nobody spoke for one heartbeat, then two, until finally a low murmuring rose from the crowd of watchful elves. The man sat as conversation rose again, somewhat muted than before, but now he kept his gaze fixed upon his plate of now-cold meat, refusing to meet anyone’s stare. Delilah couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw several of the clan shoot glances at him, ranging everywhere from uncomfortable to disdainful.

“Well,” Sutherland said at last, sounding somewhat taken aback. “I’m not the most educated person when it comes to elven history, but I can’t say I’ve ever heard anything like that before.”

“I haven’t either,” Delilah muttered, unnerved.

Beside them, the Keeper hefted a weary sigh. “Young Ilorien has joined us only recently from a distant clan in the north, who seem to be far different from the usual Dalish you might come across in your travels. He carries far different tales in his heart than do we.”

Delilah craned her neck to get a better view of the man. The music had picked back up again, and several of the elves had risen from their seats and begun dancing around the fire, blocking her view. “Different stories? I suppose if he came from a more reclusive clan, their stories might have deviated a little from how they’re usually told, but I’ve never heard anything about a secret stash of elven history somewhere in Halamshiral.”

“Neither have I, dalen,” the Keeper admitted. “He has a fire in his soul I greatly admire, but I fear his wishful thinking may have ground over his common sense in this matter. If you wish to know more about his tale, you may ask him, but I will give you the same cautioning I gave him when he told me this story: While there may be history out there for us to reclaim, it does not do to rush headlong into the brush without checking for a steep cliff on the other side.”

With that cryptic remark, the Keeper stood, brushed dirt from her legs and strode off to speak with others of her clan. Delilah, scout Harding, and Sutherland were left with their thoughts and more questions than they’d begun with.


	3. A Grim Tale

The hours passed and eventually everybody settled in for the night, some on bedrolls and some on the ground itself. Delilah stared up at the sky, and the slowly wheeling stars lulled her to sleep.

Morning dawned chill and gray. Like most Dalish clans, clan Eldarin was early to rise, with several hunters already set out hunting for the day by time Delilah and her companions had packed up their things and said their farewells.

“Dareth shiral, dalen,” the Keeper said, laying a hand on her shoulder. The woman’s wrinkled face creased with a smile. “You do the People proud.”

“Thank you, haren,” Delilah murmured. Behind her, Harding and Sutherland shifted, eager to be on their way. “I look forward to seeing you at the Arlathvhen.”

A few more goodbyes, and they set out towards Halamshiral, their next stop. Delilah couldn’t help but wonder at the story the young man, Ilorien, had told last night. Was it a coincidence that they happened to be near the city when he told this story?

Almost as if he’d been waiting for her thoughts to act as a cue, behind her appeared none other than Ilorien himself. In plain daylight she could see his long raven-black hair was pulled into a low ponytail, and his eyes weren’t black like she had originally thought, but a deep, rich brown. A wide scar peeked up out of the collar of his robes, stretching up the side of his neck to barely touch his jawline. “Wait,” he called in a low voice.

Delilah and her companions paused, glancing at each other, before she turned to face him fully. “What do you want?” she asked warily.

He fidgeted a little, his eyes slipping away from her piercing gaze. “Please,” he said, “let me come with you.”

“You want to join the Inquisition?” Harding asked. “Is your Keeper alright with that?”

Ilorien bristled a bit. “She’s not my Keeper,” he bit out. “I don’t want to join your Inquisition. I want to come with _you_.”

Delilah glanced over his shoulder, back towards clan Eldarin. They were nearly a quarter mile from the camp, yet even at this distance she could see a few of the elves watched them warily. She was sure there were scouts hidden nearby as well, eavesdropping. Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Coming with me on this mission is the same as joining the Inquisition. What difference do you see between the two?”

“I wish to travel with you for a time, but leave before you reach your Skyhold. I have my own provisions, I know the area ahead, and I know how to fight.” He stepped forward, his round face set in determination. “Please, Inquisitor, it cannot have escaped your notice that I don’t belong in this clan. Take me with you.”

Delilah glanced back at her companions. Though they didn’t say a word, both of their expressions said they’d follow whatever she decided. She turned back.

“What does the Keeper say about your desire to leave?” she asked, perhaps a little evasively. Ilorien’s lips pursed in disapproval.

“She has accepted my desire to leave,” he answered tightly. “She only asked that I not venture out alone, and wait to leave until I would be able to better guarantee my safety during the journey.”

Delilah sighed, then nodded. “Alright,” she agreed.  “You can come with us.”

The tension in his shoulders eased, and Ilorien’s face split into a smile – the first she’d seen from him. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “I swear to Elgar’nan you won’t regret helping me.”

“Well,” she said lightly, “that’s a very serious promise, one I hope you’ll live up to.” She turned back in her original direction, already lost in thought about getting to the next fade rift. “Come on, we’ve got a lot of ground to cover before night gets here,” she said a little more loudly. She marched off, setting a brisk pace through the dry scrub that made up the plains around them.

As they made their way slowly and inexorably towards Halamshiral and the fade rift that lay shortly beyond, Delilah did her best to pick away at Ilorien, to try and get a sense of the man. When he’d been telling his story last night, he’d been energetic, passionate, and downright theatrical. Now, in the watery light of day, he seemed much more reserved, sticking to one- or two-word answers to whatever questions they lobbed his way. He was polite enough, but it was clear that he didn’t feel particularly talkative. After a while, they more or less gave up, and conversation dwindled down to a minimum.

Eventually the sky turned orange, the clouds shot through with magentas, purples, and pinks. They busied themselves setting up camp next to a craggy outcropping of rock, in a shallow valley. The terrain had grown steadily rougher as they went along, and when they finally sat to rest around a small fire, every one of them groaned in relief.

“I think I have half a mountain’s worth of pebbles in my boots,” Sutherland grumbled. He pulled off his boots and shook them upside down, the offending pebbles rattling out onto the ground. “I’ve got a blister the size of Lake Calenhad on my heel.”

“Here, let me look at it,” Delilah offered. He waved her off.

“You don’t have to worry about every scrape and bruise I get,” he began.

“Give me your foot,” she commanded, smiling to soften the words. “I can’t have my companions limping along behind me, especially in front of foreign dignitaries. What will the nobility of Orlais think if the Inquisitor neglects those who serve with her?”

“But my feet stink! I’ve been walking in these same socks for two days now.”

“Nonsense. Give me your damn foot.”

Sutherland gave an exasperated sigh, but extended his foot towards her. “I just don’t want you to overextend yourself,” he explained, watching carefully. She peeled back his sock, exposing the angry red blister. Her hands hovered over it, and a soft blue glow emanated forth as healing magic spilled over his ankle and heel. Slowly but surely, the edges began to shrink, and the bright red faded to pink, then to his normal skin tone. “I know it’s just a blister, but when you insist on personally healing every little splinter or papercut we get, I know it has to wear on you.”

“Perhaps a little, but if I could heal Sera’s broken arm on the fly when she fell off a balustrade on a ruined tower, in the middle of sealing a rift, _and_ fend off two rage demons, then I can heal a tiny little blister with no problem,” Delilah replied. She yanked his sock back up over the now-healed blister and gave the bottom of his foot a cheerful pat. “There, all better. I expect you to have perfect posture tomorrow when we arrive in Halamshiral, understand?”

Sutherland gave a mock salute from where he sat, cross-legged. “Yes, Inquisitor!”

They all shared a chuckle, except for Ilorien, who’d been quiet the whole evening. He picked at his dinner, looking lost in thought. Harding reached over and nudged his knee, making him jump a bit. “Hey, are you awake over there?” she teased.

Some color flooded high into his round cheekbones. “Of course I’m awake,” he huffed. “I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“You should tell us another story like the one you told last night,” Sutherland suggested. Delilah rested her chin on her hand, watching the scene unfold with interest. Perhaps her companions could draw something out of the reclusive elf that she couldn’t.

“I- I couldn’t,” Ilorien stammered. “Besides, that was the best story I know.”

“Come on, please?” Harding asked, turning her big brown eyes pleadingly on him. He blushed all the way to the tips of his ears under her gaze.

“I...alright.” He offered a tentative smile to the beaming dwarf. Across from them, Delilah watched approvingly. There was a chance that Harding was simply doing what she could to draw him from his shell, but it was heartwarming to watch Ilorien be charmed by the scout in real time.

Ilorien thought for a long moment, then cleared his throat and straightened up. Delilah, Sutherland, and Harding all leaned forward, eager to listen. “North of the Anderfels, past Tallo’s Eye fire-mountain and the barren Weathered Pass, lies the hostile and uncharted jungle. It stretches unendingly to the north, and nobody knows what all lies in its depths; of those that dare enter, exceedingly rare few return. Those that manage to escape the grasping vines and venomous fauna tell strange stories – plants with fanged jaws that snap shut around insects, little leaping creatures that are every color you could imagine but kill with a single touch to your skin, a cat the size of a small bear whose eyes glow in the dark and whose cry sounds like the screams of a dying woman. Whether or not these creatures actually exist, however, nobody knows for sure.”

Ilorien paused, taking in their rapt faces for a heartbeat before he continued. “Nobody would expect any civilized people to survive in such a hostile place, let alone seek it out and purposefully make their home there…which is exactly what the reclusive clan Va’hirannis relied upon for privacy and protection.” His eyes twinkled as their interest spiked; or at least, Delilah’s interest did. “Yes, a Dalish clan withdrew deep into the wet jungle long ago, shunning interaction from the treacherous humans, the dwarves who were known to trade freely with dread Tevinter, the newly arrived Qun who assimilated everything in their path, and also from even those of their own blood of the Dales. They, unlike their brethren, do not wander the jungles with aravels drawn by the majestic halla, nor do they rejoin their kin for the once-a-decade Arlathven. They found a magnificent city, once a distant outpost of the mighty nation of Arlathan, now a crumbling ruin being slowly but surely reclaimed by the jungle. They entered the ruins and tunneled deep below the tiered pyramids, building a vast underground network where, to this day, they live undisturbed.

“This clan had very strict conducts of behavior to ensure their safety from the rest of the world: only two hunters are allowed outside the city at a time, strict curfews, and extensive laws for what to do if an outsider were to discover their presence, as well as unyielding punishments for those who jeopardize the clan’s secrecy. Every aspect of their society was designed to keep their presence hidden from the eyes of the world. So, naturally, there were those within that society that wanted out.

“Of course, part of their customs was to raise their children in ways that they never sought to explore the outside world, never desired contact with foreign peoples, and most of all, would never reveal the location of their home. But occasionally, someone would slip through the screening process, and manage to escape. Or, in one young woman’s case, steal precious moments spying on a human camp.

“For months, Eliarin would slip out of the city under the guise of hunting for the clan. She would hunt, yes, but she would also perch just outside the light of the humans’ torches. She couldn’t understand their language, but she learned much about them over the long nights. One night, however, she relaxed her guard just slightly too much, and she revealed herself. One of the humans she’d been observing heard her shift in the tree she sat in, and suddenly found himself staring down a pair of glowing eyes in the darkness: Eliarin’s eyes, reflecting the torchlight the same way a cat’s eyes would. She sat frozen, fearing her doom, for humans were the monsters of every one of their tales. And yet, this human did nothing except stare at her in wonder. Finally she fled, and didn’t return for many weeks.

“Eventually, curiosity got the better of her and she again visited the human camp. Always under the cover of night, always out of reach of the torchlight. Again, she saw the same human who originally spotted her. Although this time she was careful to make no noise, he looked up at the tree where she perched, and at the sight of her eyes reflecting the torchlight, instead of raising the alarm or acting afraid, he just smiled and returned to his work.

“Over the course of time, she crept closer and closer to the camp. The human would purposefully leave his work out where she could see it, and would talk aloud to ‘himself’ about it. It was this way she began picking up his language, and after a time, a tentative trust was formed between the two of them. She began leaving small gifts on his desk after he went to sleep – flowers, rocks, a creature carved out of wood – and he left small gifts on the tree where she perched – a drawing of the landscape, a magnifying glass, a small multi-tool. Eventually, as is the way of things, they began meeting face to face out of sight of camp, where they wouldn’t be overheard. After a long time, Eliarin realized she was with child, and she knew her clan would never accept a human-blooded child. She returned to the clearing where she and her human partner met, and she told him about the baby.

“He seemed as alarmed as she, and together they planned what to do. Neither camp would accept a half-blood child, so they planned to go to his home country, where he claimed being half-blooded wasn’t a rarity or even an oddity. She agreed, and the next night, they slipped away.”

Here, Ilorien’s voice took on a somber tone. “I wish I could tell you the child grew up in a loving home where he never knew pain or fear or loss. Alas, this is not the case. Eliarin didn’t realize the human man’s home was one of the outer cities of the dread Tevinter Imperium. Whether or not his intentions were true, he took her there and upon discovering what she was, the officials of the city ‘requisitioned’ her for study, as if she were some wild creature he’d found deep in the jungle. They studied her physiology, her language, her reactions to everything they did. They studied her pregnancy to discover how elves’ bodies worked during such things. And when she gave birth, they studied the child too.

“Some years later, mother and child were released into the ownership of a local Tevinter noble, who kept the ‘savage’ and her child as entertainment. It took another several years before Eliarin and her son, now nearly to his first decade, tried to escape their slavery. As they slipped into the wilderness, Tevinter bounty hunters accosted them. Eliarin, determined to keep her precious child out of harm’s way, threw herself in front of her son and fought the soldiers. In the end she was slain, but as her lifeblood bled into the sand, she saw her son had fled and was out of their reach.”

Ilorien’s voice dwindled away as he finally registered the stricken expressions on Delilah, Sutherland, and Harding’s faces. “That’s a bit of a grim story,” Sutherland said at last, sounding shaken. Harding seemed to agree. Ilorien grimaced in apology.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I know it’s not exactly a bedtime story for children.”

“But it’s clearly a story from the heart,” Harding said. “You have a talent for storytelling, regardless of how cheerful it is.” She laid a hand on his knee, and Ilorien flushed cherry red and stammered a ‘thank you’.


	4. Plotting a Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early because Micah said the last chapter was too depressing. Here you go asshole <3

It wasn’t too long afterwards that they all settled down to sleep. Delilah stared at the stars for a long time, unable to fall asleep, before a subtle shifting caught her attention. Across from her, Ilorien had stealthy climbed out of his bedroll and was creeping out of camp. Soundlessly, Delilah did the same. Beside her, Harding appeared similarly awake and ready to rise, but stopped at Delilah’s raised hand. Sutherland’s saw-like snores covered any movement Delilah’s bare feet made on the cool earth as she followed Ilorien into the night.

When she caught up to him, he’d climbed atop the outcropping of rock which guarded their camp from the wind. He sat with his back to her, staring out across the rough terrain in the direction of Halamshiral. A pebble shifted under her foot and his pointed ears flicked in response, so she knew he knew she was there, but he made no move to face her. Indeed, he was stone still as she sat next to him. The wind brushed at their hair gently, the strands tickling her neck and face. For several minutes they sat in silence. When Ilorien finally turned to face her, his face was set and determined.

“I haven’t been fully honest with you,” he said.

“I know.”

“You _know_?”

Delilah lifted an amused eyebrow. “Of course I know. You’re not exactly the sneakiest person I’ve ever met.”

He gave a chagrined smile. “Very well. Do you also know what I’ve been dishonest about?”

“Enlighten me.”

Ilorian stood and began pacing, looking torn. “The story I told the other evening, about Halamshiral and the Grand Library and the hidden stash of elven artifactss…I believe it is real. And I plan to find it.”

Delilah stared at him for a moment, sizing him up. He didn’t seem weak-minded or easily swayed, but…it was just too fantastical an idea. Still, if she knew anything, she knew a straight dismissal would likely do the opposite of getting him to open up to them. “How do you plan to find it?”

For a moment he simply looked relieved that she didn’t laugh at it outright. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “The structure of the Grand Library would be long gone and rebuilt over. If I’m correct, the Winter Palace now stands where the library once stood, built on the ruins of a chateau that was built on the ruins of the library. But my guess is, if the stash has survived until now, it’d be underground. Somewhere safe and protected from snoopers or invading Orlesians, but relatively near the library so there was less chance of smuggled artifacts being discovered in transport.”

“That sounds reasonable…assuming the stash is real,” she amended. “If you can find an entrance, it’ll likely be protected.”

“Yes,” Ilorian agreed. “But assuming what the story says about the junior librarian is true, they’ll have held immense distrust of humans. I doubt it would be warded against elves.”

“A fair assumption, but it’s not safe to assume Sutherland or even Harding won’t trip any wards,” Delilah mused. “If we find an entrance, they may have to stay back to allow us entry.”

“’Us’?”

She smiled. “You think I’d miss out on the find of a millennia? I’m going with you. We’re headed to the city anyway. And besides, you need the cover of the Inquisition to get into the city without undue speculation, right? That’s why you worked your way to be here right as we’re approaching the city.”

He gaped at her for a moment, then smiled sheepishly. “Correct again. I must work upon my subtlety if it’s so easy to discern my reasoning and methods.”

Delilah patted his arm reassuringly. “Don’t take it too personally. My spymaster has been personally grooming Harding for years, it’s hard to get things past her.” While this was true, Delilah had actually guessed this on her own. However, she found it wise to not tip her hand and reveal just how shrewd she actually was. That, and her pointed ears, often metaphorically let her overhear things that ordinarily people would keep quiet about.

“And here I had an entire speech planned to sway you to my side. I was going to remind you that everything you’ve done, aside from saving the world, has been with a steadfast and unwavering loyalty to your people, your culture, and your heritage. That if we found the stash, it would be the biggest discovery for all of the Dalish in recorded history, and could bring their culture forward by centuries, if not a millennia.” Ilorien fixed her with a wry smile. “Though I am glad it was unnecessary.”

Delilah smiled softly. “You certainly do have a way with words. I ought to put you in charge of writing my speeches,” she teased. He harrumphed, but still looked pleased at the praise. “I do want to know though, why didn’t you ask for our help back when we stayed with clan Eldarin? Why the theatrics with the storytelling and asking us to allow you to travel with us the next day?”

His smile faded, and he stared morosely out into the darkness. “I’d only been traveling with their clan for a few weeks. Since I was so new, and didn’t have the evidence and support of the Inquisition behind me, they didn’t fully trust me. I can’t blame them. I kept myself apart and standoffish on purpose. When they asked where I was from, and when I told them about my old clan, they didn’t believe me. They didn’t believe the story about the Grand Library either. Even you don’t really believe it,” he added, gesturing at her.

She sighed, tracing a pattern in the dust by her side. “Do you truly blame me, though? I’ve spent my entire life dedicating every single Dalish history to heart, and yet I’ve never heard anything like your story before. I’ve heard of the Grand Library and its destruction, yes, but nothing about a secret stash of Dalish culture. If it exists, I’ll gladly help you find it, but do you really expect me to immediately believe it to be any more than wishful thinking?”

Ilorien turned to face her fully. In the darkness, his warm brown eyes were as black as the sky above them and just as depthless. “I swear on my mother’s blood that the story is true. Or at least that it was true when it was first told to my predecessors, and we’ve done our best to preserve it both from mangling by a careless tongue, or theft by others who’d use the story for ill gain.” His voice was steady, and absolutely sincere. Regardless of if the stash existed, he believed in it. Perhaps he needed to believe.

“That still doesn’t explain why you waited to tell me,” Delilah said eventually. “If they don’t trust you or think you weak-minded for believing this, wouldn’t they be glad to see you gone?”

Ilorien smiled ruefully. “If the Inquisitor were seen agreeing to help some fool on flight of fancy, it might lessen your stature among the rest of the Dalish. I’ve heard of your pursuit to improve the lives of all elves despite your obligations to the Inquisition. If they thought you were easily swayed by pretty words and the promise of treasure, they might think you weak of heart or mind. This way, they think you merciful and kind for agreeing to protect a traveler, albeit one who shares the blood of the People with you.”

Delilah stared at him, speechless. This was all a very shrewd calculation on his part, and a gamble as well. If he was smart enough to think this through, perhaps smart enough to track them without them noticing until they were close enough to Halamshiral to not dismiss his request so readily, perhaps he wasn’t so dimwitted to realize that this may be a long shot. Perhaps there was something to this legend after all.

His smile widened at her expression. “I may not be sneaky,” he said, standing and brushing the dust from his loose pants, “but I have a strong sense of logic and reasoning. If you still agree to help me, tomorrow we’ll discuss how to get into the city without arising suspicion. Goodnight, Inquisitor.” And with that, he headed back towards their camp and disappeared into the darkness.

The four of them rose early the next day, just as the east was just turning pink and gold. Their breath huffed out in front of them, gilded orange by the first rays of dawn. Far in the distance, the golden sunbeams glittered off metal and polished marble – the outskirts of Halamshiral. Delilah almost fancied for a moment that she could see the glimmering towers that marked the Winter Palace.

“So, if you don’t believe you can find any clues in the Winter Palace, where do you think we ought to start looking? Anything remaining of anything Dalish would’ve been destroyed during the Orlesian occupation,” Delilah pointed out. Behind them, Sutherland and Harding glanced at each other but said nothing. Delilah had filled them in on Ilorien’s true intentions, to no shortage of questions from her companions. Delilah had done her best to answer those questions, but it felt like the majority of her replies had been ‘I don’t know’.

Ilorien grunted. “There’s a possibility that we can find something within the ruins that still dot the countryside, on the outer edges of the city. With the majority of the buildings demolished and rebuilt over the course of time, we’ll likely find nothing within the city to help us.”

“So we use the Inquisition’s prestige to get into the city under the illusion of resting before we continue on to seal the last rift, and then on to Skyhold. What good does it do us if we find no clues within the city limits?” Delilah asked.

“If there are no hints _within_ the city, then we will search _outside_ the city.” Ilorien gave her a determined look. “Like I said, there are ruins dotting the countryside and it is likely there’s _something_ to be found just outside city limits. We will find the stash, I swear it.”

And he looked so serious that for that moment, she believed him.

It took them another several hours to reach the city proper, passing manors and farmland in the gently rolling hills that filled this part of Orlais. The midday sun warmed their backs, making them shed and then carry their coats and scarves, and by the time they were greeted by an actual city official, they were almost actually sweating.

The man who greeted them swept forward in a flamboyant bow, not quite low enough to hide his smirk under his traditional Orlesian mask.

“May I have the honor of welcoming the Inquisition to our beloved city of Halamshiral,” he said grandly, straightening up. His clothes weren’t the typical frilly and frankly awful style that Delilah had seen in her years visiting Orlais; it was armor proper, though admittedly it was still forged in the Orlesian style. At his waist was belted a slim rapier, but from his stance and the way he carried himself, Delilah knew that it was a real weapon, not just ornamentation. “I must confess, I was not alerted that we’d be hosting the mighty Inquisitor herself, nor any of her companions.” His eyes flickered over Harding, Sutherland, and Ilorien as he spoke, and summarily dismissed them.

“I apologize for any inconvenience,” Delilah said smoothly, stepping forward.  “We didn’t send word ahead of our arrival because we didn’t want to make a fuss over ourselves on your account. As you may have heard, my companions and I have been keeping ourselves busy traveling and sealing the remaining rifts in the Fade. Considering that Corypheus has been defeated,” she added with a smile as calculated as her words, “and the red templars and Venatori being nearly routed, it seemed the decent thing to do. If you please, we’d like to rest in the city for a few days, before we continue along with our mission, ser…?”

The chevalier bowed again. “Where are my manners? I am Ser Rémi-Matthieu Droit de Val Firmin, Captain of Halamshiral’s chevalier battalion. Please, allow me to take you and your companions on a tour of the city. Last time the Inquisition visited, I believe you were far too concerned with a murder plot at the Masquerade to have time to take in the true beauty of the city.”

She gave a laugh, as if the memory were a fond one rather than one that brought up leftover anxiety and frustration. “Thank you for the offer, but after a long day of walking we’re a little too tired to trek about the city at the moment,” she said. “Perhaps after a good night’s rest, we’ll take you up on your offer.”

He bowed again. “But of course. Please, allow me to show you to your guest quarters. I assure you, the Inquisition will receive nothing but the best service Orlais has to offer.”

“Thank you,” Delilah said graciously. “I do wonder though, is it normal in Orlais for the captain of the city’s chevalier battalion to greet visiting dignitaries personally? I’d think your other duties would keep you from doing such things.”

Rémi-Matthieu chuckled. “Not usually,” he admitted in a lower tone. “But I happened to be nearby, and I had not had the pleasure of meeting you in person, so I leapt upon the chance.” He straightened, and his voice returned to its previous volume. “Please, if you will follow me this way…”

With a glance back to her companions, she followed behind the chevalier deep into the city, already feeling the excitement rising deep in her chest. For the first time in a long time, they were on a real adventure.

Despite their unexpected arrival, Rémi-Matthieu quickly set them up in a guest house just a brisk walk from the Winter Palace itself. Though to be fair, the term ‘guest house’ felt like quite the understatement. The house had four bedrooms all connected to a single common room, with a kitchen to the side and a small washroom next to it. All of it was furnished in the usual flowery and over-the-top Orlesian style, but Delilah’s groan of relief when she sank onto a small settee wasn’t faked in the least.

“If there is anything at all that we can do to make your stay more comfortable, Inquisitor, please do not hesitate to let us know,” Rémi-Matthieu intoned from the doorway. “The kitchen is fully stocked, should you desire to cook for yourselves. If that is not the case, or if something else arises, there’s a bell-pull right here. Pull it and a servant shall appear shortly to assist you with whatever you need.”

“Thank you, Ser Rémi-Matthieu,” Delilah said, lifting a hand. “We appreciate everything you’ve done, especially on such short notice.”

He bowed again. “It is the least we can do for the Inquisition, savior of Thedas.” And with that, he disappeared out the double doors, closing them behind him with a _snick_.

Sutherland huffed a loud breath, stretching where he stood. “Those Orlesians never seem to get enough of their particuliar brand of hospitality, do they?” he mused, plopping down on the couch. He began tugging at the laces on his boots. “They act all generous and everything but I’ll bet you there’s someone somewhere muttering behind a mask about how _indecent_ it is to just show up without notice to such an _important_ city.”

Harding _tsked_ at him. “You might be right, but they _did_ set us up with a really nice place at short notice,” she admonished. “Besides, since were here on a fairly sensitive mission, it’ll do us some good to stay in their good graces during our stay.”

“I hate to say it, but she’s right,” Delilah sighed. “The Game is frustrating at the best of times, but it’s necessary. While we’re here, at least.”

“Well, alright,” the warrior admitted, looking a little embarrassed. “But you won’t catch me dead in one of those masks.”

Harding laughed. “I don’t think they make you wear them.”

“You’ve been awfully quiet, Ilorien,” Delilah said, turning to him. Indeed, he’d been silent for a couple of hours now, since before Rémi-Matthieu first greeted them. “This is _your_ mission, in a sense. What do you make of it all so far?”

He glanced up at her from where he sat on the floor, legs crossed atop the plush rug. The vibrant colors and patterns made his muted clothes seem drab and dull in comparison. “I don’t know,” he said quietly. “It’s so much more…fancy than I imagined it all would be.”

“You get used to it after a while,” Delilah said gently. “Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.” She finally pulled off her boots and set them by the door, next to Harding’s and Sutherland’s. “So this is going to be our base of operations for the next few days. Harding, I’m not sure how much I need to tell you about how we ought to act here, but Sutherland and Ilorien, I need you to listen to me.”

For several minutes, she gave them a crash course on how to read and respond properly to those who lived and died by the Game, with its subtle and sometimes deadly machinations; even as she spoke, she could hear Josephine, Vivienne, and Leliana’s tutelage echoing from her memories. But mostly she pressed upon the importance of not acting as if they were looking for something.

“How come we don’t just ask one of the higher-ups in the city to help?” Sutherland probed. “If anybody’ll know anything about leftover elven ruins, it’d be them, right?”

“You could be right, but Orlesians are notorious for sneering down their noses at anything non-Orlesian: the elves, the dwarves, the Qun, the Fereldens, the Free Marches, even Nevarrans and Antivans. If they find word that someone’s interested in them for something other than historical curiosity, who knows what they’d do to the site?” Delilah tilted her head back until she leaned against the wall, staring idly at the ceiling as she spoke. “They might demolish it out of spite. They might start searching too, and find the stash before us. If the stash is real, it belongs in Dalish hands, not human. No offense,” she added, glancing at Sutherland.

He raised his hands, giving a self-aware grimace. “None taken.”

“So we make sure the Orlesians don’t catch onto our plans,” Harding clarified. “How do you propose we scour the city for clues without being caught? I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that you are, in fact, the most well-known figure in southern Thedas right now. You tend to attract a lot of attention.”

Delilah gave a slow smile that didn’t quite hide her cringe at the thought, remembering exactly how she’d used that fact the last time the Inquisition had come to Halamshiral. “I know,” she replied. “And that’s exactly the plan.”


	5. Day One

All four of them talked late into the night, ironing out the details of their plan. When the last scraps of dinner had been eaten, and a distant chantry bell tolled eleven at night, they said their goodnights and went to bed.

Despite the late night and the long day of walking before, they rose early the next morning, eager to be started. Each of them set out into the city for their agreed assignments. Sutherland headed towards Halamshiral’s military complex, claiming to want to witness how chevalier training worked in person. Delilah and scout Harding took up Rémi-Matthieu on his offer of a tour. Ilorien, meanwhile, went off on his own, to run various ‘errands for the Inquisition’.

“Your gardens are quite beautiful,” Delilah commented. And it was true, the sprawling estate had hundreds of varieties of flowers and herbs and trees, from all over the region, all lovingly cultivated. Several of the plants she recognized from her studies, but others were completely foreign. “How many gardeners does it take to keep such an expanse of flora looking so healthy, even at the cusp of winter?”

“We employ several dozen at a time,” their guide said. Instead of typical Orlesian finery, the gardener who had introduced herself as Florine wore more practical pants and a loose but modest long-sleeved shirt, much more suitable for the garden work she’d explained that she oversaw. A wide floppy hat shaded her clay-brown eyes from the weak morning sun, and the entirety of her dark face was speckled with freckles. “About forty or fifty people live on the grounds at a time, tending to the gardens, and we cycle them out every couple of months so that they can still spend time with their families.” Harding shot a subtle glance at Delilah at that, and Florine noticed. “We are not forced to live here,” she said more softly. “I know the stories that are told about the Orlesian indifference towards its servant class, particularly its elves; but at least in my gardens, we’re treated as well as we can be.”

Delilah inclined her head. “I'm sorry if we offended. We didn’t come here to pass judgement on how things are done here, in regards to either servants or gardening.”

Florine gave a toothy smile. “You didn’t offend. It’s heartening to see a leader who clearly cares about the ‘little people’, as it were. Even if they’re not technically your people.”

“I don’t have any illusion of being above the people of Thedas, but I do consider them all my charges,” Delilah mused. “I feel it’s my duty to protect them, whenever possible. Perhaps it’s ingrained in me after fighting so long to protect from the threat Corypheus presented.”

“An understandable reaction,” Florine replied. They chatted for a little while longer, wandering the gardens. The gardener showed them various sections of the gardens dedicated to specific types of plants – the herb area, the floral area, the fruit tree grove, the vineyards. It was all lovely, but it still felt false to Delilah when she’d spent her whole life seeing the flora in its natural, wild state.

She didn’t say this, of course, because she was a polite person and didn’t want to insult the gardeners’ hard work, but it still just felt weird to her.

If Harding was off-put by it, she didn’t show it. She engaged the woman in lively conversation, leaving Delilah to trail behind them, quietly checking out the guard positioning and rotations under the guise of admiring the foliage.

“You say you have a garden in Skyhold?” Florine asked, her eyes wide. “How do you manage to maintain it at such high altitudes and in such cold weather?”

“Well, I can’t say I know too much about it, since I usually only stop in every couple of weeks,” Harding replied sheepishly. “But the woman who usually takes care of the garden may know more. If you like, when I return I could have her send you a letter explaining all about it.”

“I’d be quite grateful, but please don’t go through any extra effort on my behalf,” she said, her cheeks warming. “Though I would appreciate a letter from you as well, should you think to write.”

Delilah watched in amusement, noting the answering blush on the dwarf’s face. Though she knew Harding didn’t have a personal stake on this mission, and was only helping because of her loyalty to her, it was gratifying to see the scout getting some personal reward out of her work. She fell slightly further behind under the guise of examining a peculiar fruit tree to give the two women some privacy.

An hour later, Delilah and Harding met with Rémi-Matthieu once more, and he escorted them to a local café where they were whisked away to a wrought iron table topped with frosted glass, made private by wooden shutters pulled around them.

“I do hope we’re not pulling you away from your duties, ser,” Delilah had said when he announced he’d be joining them for lunch, if they permitted. “I wouldn’t want to be the cause of your troops slacking off in their duties and training.”

The chevalier waved a dismissive hand. “Nonsense,” he replied. “My men know what is expected of them, and they will work to meet and surpass these expectations regardless of if I am there or not. One of the benefits,” he added with a prideful smirk, “of our particular brand of chevalier training.”

“One of my companions wished to sit in to observe some of this training,” Delilah mentioned casually as servers began bringing out covered platters. They whisked away the domed lids, revealing roast chicken, cuts of what appeared to be boar, seasoned greens, piles of potatoes, and steaming mushrooms, as well as various other dishes that Delilah had seen before but had no name for. Still other dishes were entirely foreign to her. Orlesians could always be counted on to overdo even a simple lunch repast. “He seemed quite interested in the level of dignity and diligence that your men hold themselves to.”

Rémi-Matthieu preened under the praise. “But of course,” he beamed. “Our men undergo grueling training regimens for years to reach the standards of the Orlesian chevalier. Of course, each major city has its own slightly varied brand of chevalier, dependent upon the captain per battalion as well as the marshals and the Grand Marshal, and naturally every one of us believes our own troops to be superior to the rest, but I do believe my men have a little extra something that the rest do not.”

“You take great pride in your men,” she noted with a smile. They all dug into the feast, hungry after spending the entire morning on their feet once more. “I understand. I feel the same way about my own armies, and in Commander Cullen’s training of them.”

“I’m sure having a templar training your men is an advantage of which many a warrior is envious,” Rémi-Matthieu remarked. “Ex-templar, pardon me. Tell me, I’ve heard that the withdrawals from lyrium can be…well, unpleasant at best. Have you found that your commander’s focus has wavered as he undoubtedly battles his own inner demons, as it were?” He leaned forward, fingers steepled, the tips barely touching his chin as he stared Delilah down.

She met his gaze steadily, keeping her own face in a cool mask of politeness. She’d been there to witness Cullen’s breakdown in the throes of lyrium withdrawal; she’d walked in on him demanding Cassandra find a replacement for commander of the Inquisition’s armies; she’d talked him down from his emotional high and helped him rationalize his decision to break free of the Chantry’s leash and the inevitable mental breakdown that was its result. Of all the things she’d done, she knew Cullen was most grateful for her unconditional support of his lunge for freedom.

But that story wasn’t hers to tell, and knowing Cullen’s introverted nature, he wouldn’t be happy about his personal life being bandied about like common gossip. Even if he had been accepting of it, however, she couldn’t talk about his personal struggles with a stranger like this. “Commander Cullen’s dedication and sacrifice for the Inquisition’s cause have been unparalleled and have never wavered,” she answered baldly. “He would happily give his own life if he believed it would further the Inquisition’s cause.” This was, of course, the truth, but it kept the intimate details to a minimum of none.

If the chevalier was disappointed by the subtle refusal to gossip about her commander, he didn’t show it. He sat back in his chair, finally taking a bite of his lunch. “Of course,” he said smoothly. “Your success in the Arbor Wilds is a glowing testimonial of your own men’s training. I do hope you’ll convey my compliments to Commander Cullen upon your safe return to Skyhold?”

“Of course.”

Now Rémi-Matthieu turned to Scout Harding. “Madame Harding, you’ve hardly said a dozen words since we all reunited,” he said, eyeing her past his silver mask. “I understand you’ve traveled much of Thedas in your work for the Inquisition. How do you find Halamshiral in comparison to the other lands you’ve seen, my lady?”

“Please, just Scout Harding is fine,” she replied. “The grounds of the Winter Palace are lovely, just as they were the first time the Inquisitor came here on official business. I don’t usually have the chance to stop and enjoy the places I scout out, since I’m busy collecting information for the scouting reports. I do, however, appreciate the chance to stop and smell the roses, both figuratively and literally.”

The chevalier captain laughed heartily at that. “For such a small tongue, it is quite clever.”

Harding gave a faint smile, though Delilah could see the strain behind it at the casual racism. She knew Harding hated being called small or any variation of the word. She was grateful in that moment for the scout’s exceptional people skills, and wished that managing the flow of the Game came so easily to herself – but also grateful that the backstabbing maneuvers and poison coated pretty words didn’t come second nature.

“And of course, we’re grateful that the Inquisition has visited our magnificent city in a less official manner. Still en route to business, of course,” he added, swirling his glass of wine, “but not actually doing anything here except for resting and enjoying the rich culture we have to offer. Please remind me, how long do you believe you’ll be staying in our beautiful city?”

“I’m not sure,” Delilah replied vaguely. It would depend entirely on Ilorien’s sleuthing skills, and whether he could be sneaky enough to keep out of suspicion. The main worry, Delilah thought, is that the servants would see him and would gossip. Word passed more quickly through a chain of servants than even Leliana’s messenger ravens could fly. If the wrong person heard about Ilorien snooping around, their plot could be over before it truly began. “Perhaps another few days. My companions and I are weary after months of travel and fighting the remaining terrors lurking in the land, and there is still a long stretch of road between here and Skyhold. We would like to regain most of our strength before we set out for the final leg of our journey, especially the trek up the mountains. And then, of course, there’s still the matter of that final fade rift outside the city that we must close before we return home.”

“Completely understandable,” he replied with a nod. “Please, do not take my question as a suggestion to hasten your business in the city, however. I want to ensure your needs are met for the entirety of your stay, regardless of how long it may be.”

“We’re grateful for your assistance,” she answered. At some hidden cue, the servants reappeared and whisked away the now-empty platters.

“Shall I have dessert brought out? Orlesian sweets are the envy of Thedas, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Rémi-Matthieu said pompously. Harding and Delilah were shaking their heads before he finished speaking.

“I’m afraid if I ate another bite, I’d have to be wheeled out of here in a cart,” Harding joked. “Everything was delicious.”

“I agree,” Delilah concurred. The chevalier smiled as if he’d already known they’d refuse.

“Very well. Would you like to retire to your guest house for a nap, perhaps? If you’d like to continue your tour, I would hate for you to get a cramp.”

“That would be nice, thank you.”

That afternoon when Delilah, Harding, Sutherland, and Ilorien finally regrouped at the guest house, they all looked exhausted and grumpy. Judging from Ilorien’s expression, he hadn’t been successful.

“I’ve found nothing,” he grunted, confirming her conclusion. “I searched several ruins with no hints to anything that could lead to the stash.”

She sighed. “Well, I can’t say I really expected to find anything on the first day. What are you even looking for, specifically?”

“Runes, hidden levers, secret passageways…there’s got to be something.” He leaned back against the wall and rubbed at his temples, as if a headache was forming there. “It would be easier if I didn’t have to skulk around and keep myself as nonsuspicious as possible.”

“We’ll be here a few days, so don’t let yourself become too stressed out,” Delilah said reassuringly.

“I know.” He ran a hand through his raven hair, which he’d removed from its low ponytail, and absentmindedly began loosening a tangle he found. “I just think we’ll be quite lucky if we happen upon any clues, let alone find an actual entrance.”

“After such an impassioned speech the other day, and travelling so far, you’re really going to give up after only one day?” Harding said, a little incredulously. She nudged him with her elbow. “You knew it would be tough and a long shot at best. I don’t want to see you give up on your dream so easily.”

A blush crept high into Ilorien’s cheeks at her words, and he dropped his gaze to his lap. “I know-”

Sutherland clapped a hand on the elf’s shoulder. “Come on, she’s right. You dragged us into this, we’re not gonna let you give up so easy.”

Ilorien finally met Delilah’s eyes again, and in his deep brown eyes she saw the spark of returning determination. She gave him an encouraging smile, which he returned. “Thank you,” he said sincerely to all of them. “Just…thank you.”

Delilah clapped her hands together, snaring their attention. “Now that we’ve done the usual pep talk, it’s time to talk strategy. We’re going to stick to our plan of giving Ilorien the space and time he needs to find what he’s looking for. Harding and I visited the gardens today and found nothing, aside from some herbs. Sutherland, did you see anything while you were at the chevalier training grounds?”

The warrior was shaking his head before she even finished speaking. “No. In typical Orlesian fashion, they’ve changed everything about the area all the way to the landscape itself to match what they think Orlais ought to look like. There weren’t even any crumbling ruins around the outskirts of the area to look at.”

Delilah snorted in a very unladylike fashion, one that Josephine had scolded her regularly for. “And of course that is _such_ a surprise.”

“However,” Sutherland continued, a slow grin spreading on his face, “I’m not gonna pretend watching those chevaliers wasn’t interesting as Andraste’s granny-panties. They train just as hard here as Commander Cullen trains our boys, though here they’re born and bred for it. In comparison, they make our volunteer army look like a bunch of illiterate hillbillies holding a stick.”

Delilah raised a thick eyebrow. “I’ll try not to feel insulted on our commander’s and army’s behalf, Lieutenant,” she said mildly. The warrior grimaced.

“I don’t mean it like an insult,” he apologized. “I just mean they’re _that_ dedicated to their cause. I’d hate to have _one_ as my enemy, much less a battalion.”

“Especially if they figure out that we’re snooping around, and why,” Harding added.

“They’re certainly more formidable than any fighter I have ever seen,” Ilorien mused. “I’ve met a chevalier or two on my travels, and I’m certain I only survived the encounter because they found me of no consequence.”

“I’ve fought one before,” Delilah said thoughtfully. “He wanted to ‘test the honor of the Inquisition’ or some such nonsense, and challenged me to a duel to the death. I defeated him but wouldn’t kill him, which upset him greatly. I had to knock him unconscious with my staff before he would stop trying to kill me.” She chuckled at the memory. “If I remember right, I left a note on him asking him to join the Inquisition when he awoke, since he was such a skilled fighter.”

“Did he join?” Ilorien asked, amused.

Delilah sighed quietly. “He did. He died in the assault in the Arbor Wilds a year ago, as honorable a death as he could’ve hoped for.”

“I’m sorry,” Ilorien said quietly.

They were all quiet for a moment before Delilah cleared her throat. “Tomorrow we need to keep up the ruse,” she said briskly. “Sutherland, I want you back at the chevalier training compound, to see what you can sniff out. Those chevaliers will have extensive education on top of their military training. You need to see if you can subtly pick at their historical knowledge. Ilorien, you keep doing… whatever it is you’re doing. Harding, I want you to try and find some maps of the city, the more detailed the better. You can pass it off as ‘scout’s curiosity’ about the area.”

The dwarf chuckled. “You say that like it’s not a real thing.”

“I’ll see what I can do about visiting the Orlesian library. There’s a slim chance there’s documented history about the Orlesian occupancy, and what all changes they made to the countryside,” Delilah continued.

“It seems you’ve done this kind of thing before,” Ilorien pointed out. She gave a crooked smile in return.

“Once upon a time I came here under the guise of a masquerade to try and stop an assassination,” she mused aloud. “The fate of Orlais, and in turn Thedas, hung in the balance. And yet I find that, in searching for an ancient history, this situation feels like much more is at stake.”

She and Ilorien shared a smile before Sutherland interrupted with an explosive yawn. “Sorry,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

“Let’s get some rest,” Delilah suggested. “We’ve still got a lot to do before this is over and done with.”


	6. The Library

As they settled into their bedrolls atop the fine linens of the guest beds, chatting quietly, none of them heard the furtive movements behind a hidden panel in the wall of the kitchen. The secret door hid a servant’s passage, where servants could bring in food or supplies or take out trash or what-have-you, with little to no interruption of their guests attention or actions. Behind this door, his ear pressed flat to the plaster, stood a servant boy of perhaps eleven or twelve. As soon as Delilah and her companions started getting ready for bed, he pulled away from the door and ran silently down the short hall to the back door, and out into the night. He hurried up the elegantly paved road, ignoring the shout of a serving woman that he ought to be home in bed, until he reached the main building of the chevaliers’ training compound.

“What do you want?” the guard at the door sneered.

“I bring news for Ser Rémi-Matthieu!” the boy said, going wide-eyed at the rapier belted to the guard’s waist. “Please, monsieur, he is expecting me.”

The guard rolled his eyes, as if he couldn’t be bothered to care, but went inside anyway. A long minute later, his footsteps approached and he reemerged. “Captain Rémi-Matthieu will see you,” the guard said, sounding utterly bored. “Now get on with you.”

The servant boy nodded vigorously and hurried inside.

The corridor was dimly lit, with only the occasional torch flickering in its sconce in regular intervals along the walls. The boy made his way down the hall until he came across the captain’s office. He knocked timidly on the heavy wooden door.

“Entrez,” came the captain’s gruff command. The boy swung the door open and stepped inside hesitantly.

The office was richly furnished. The decorator had apparently had a penchant for appearance over comfort, though it wasn’t overly stuffy; the armchairs looked stiff-backed and lacked extra padding or decorative cushions that ordinary Orlesian rooms tended to have. Rémi-Matthieu himself sat in one of these hard chairs, bent over a desk, a quill flicking back and forth across a sheet of paper. He looked up as the boy entered, and set his quill on the desk. Candlelight flickered along the lines of his silver mask as he crossed his arms.

“What have you found out?” Rémi-Matthieu asked. Not a polite request, not even curiosity, just the blunt questioning of a commanding officer. The boy fidgeted under his stare.

“They’re looking for something. They’re worried about people knowing what they’re doing,” the boy rattled off. He shuffled his feet, refusing to meet the chevalier’s hard stare.

“What are they looking for? Where are they looking? Why don’t they want people to know? Be precise,” Rémi-Matthieu said. “And for Andraste’s sake, relax a little. You look as if you’re going to faint dead away.”

The boy took a breath, making an effort to steady himself. “They said something about a stash and they’re looking in ruins, but they didn’t say why they didn’t wanna get caught,” he said, a little slower and more firmly. “The Inquisitor, the dwarf, and the human are going around buying time for the fourth one to look around without getting caught.”

“A stash?” The chevalier sat back in his chair, absentmindedly fiddling with the corner of his mustache. “In ruins? Perhaps a Red Jenny drop off, they’re known to collaborate with the Inquisition now and then…”

“Red Jenny, monsieur?” the servant boy asked.

Rémi-Matthieu waved a hand. “Never mind that. You may go. Speak of this to no one,” he ordered. “Until I know more about what our dear Inquisitor is planning, I don’t want too much scrutiny on her or her people.”

“But monsieur, don’t you _want_ to know what she’s doing?” the boy dared ask.

The chevalier’s mouth twisted into a grim smile under his mask, though the smile didn’t reach his dark eyes. “And risk alerting my prey to the hunt?” He waved his hand again, dismissively. The servant boy bowed low, and slipped out the door.

Rémi-Matthieu leaned back in his chair, staring into space as he thought. The elven woman was searching ruins for a stash of some kind, and was greatly concerned about alerting the Orlesians to her activities. Considering Lavellan’s poorly concealed distaste for Orlesian finery and culture, he should’ve known something was amiss when she requested to stay in the city for several days, let alone requested tours of the place.

But no matter. He would continue as if he knew nothing of the elf’s scheming, and would continue to ply her with food and wine and entertainment. In the meanwhile, he would contact some of his more trustworthy servants to keep eyes on all four of them. If Lavellan, Harding, and Sutherland were staying in plain sight to draw attention from the fourth, the elven man, then Rémi-Matthieu was happy to oblige. Servants being around those three would be nothing unusual so long as they were in the public eye.

Keeping sight on the fourth one, though, would be tricky. He was apparently eager to remain unobserved, and would likely be watching for anyone watching _him_. And as he was an unknown element – even Sutherland and Harding had developed quiet reputations over the past few years, but as far as Rémi-Matthieu knew, nobody had ever heard of this Ilorien – it was impossible to tell exactly how observant he is. They would have to be careful here.

He let out a chuckle as he examined this situation, turning it over in his mind as if it were some interesting object, noting how illumination upon different sides and perspectives revealed interesting new facets and possibilities. Whether Lavellan realized or not, she had just entered into a chess match with Halamshiral’s most celebrated tactician.

And Rémi-Matthieu had never lost at chess.

Ilorien had already left when Delilah, Harding, and Sutherland rose the next morning.

On the small table next to the ornate double doors sat a small folded note, which read in short stiff letters, “I went out early to do errands. I will see you tonight. Ilorien.”

“Did Ilorien leave already?” Harding asked her. Delilah passed her the note, and could’ve sworn disappointment crossed the scout’s freckled face as she read the words.

“Come on, we’ve got lots to do today,” Sutherland said cheerfully from his bed, where he was pulling on and lacing up his boots. “I don’t know about you two, but I have an ass whooping to avenge myself of on the training grounds.”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have challenged the strongest chevalier in the complex to a duel,” Harding quipped. The warrior didn’t seem offended by the snark – in fact, his smile widened.

“How else do you learn than by occasionally getting knocked onto your ass?” he pointed out. “Life’s no fun if you succeed at everything you try your hand at.”

“Alright, get going,” Delilah interrupted with a chuckle. “Though do try not to leave with your tail between your legs this time. Fun and learning aside, it would do no good for the Orlesians to believe that my men are so frequently defeated, especially one I handpicked to be a companion as I travel.”

Though humor danced in his eyes, Sutherland snapped upright into a straight-backed salute, pressing his fist over his heart in the gesture of honor and fealty that had developed within the Inquisition. “I’ll consider it an order, Inquisitor ser,” he exclaimed. “Upon my life, I vow to stain neither yours nor the Inquisition’s honor.”

Delilah threw a small stuffed pillow at him, which he caught with ease. “Get out,” she laughed. “I’d say don’t make a fool of yourself, but you seem determined to do so regardless.”

A short time later, Delilah and her companions were greeted by a short, curvy woman, her bright coppery hair pulled back behind an orange bandana and her cheerful face smattered with freckles. “Well hello there,” she called, striding up to the guest house just as they stepped outside. “I’ll be showing you all around today, I’m afraid Ser Rémi-Matthieu couldn’t be pulled away from his duties this morning.”

“That’s fine. I didn’t expect him to drop everything to play host for us,” Delilah said with a smile.

“I’m Portia, by the way,” she continued, gesturing for the three of them to follow her. “I’m one of the head servants here in Halamshiral. I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been keeping unofficial tabs on you all since you got here.”

“Understandable,” Harding supplied. “It also appears the royal and military hierarchies are not the only ones at play here.”

Portia’s sky blue eyes twinkled. “Indeed. The working class here may not be as wealthy or well-traveled, but the right servant with the right noble’s ear can have as much or more influence than even Empress Celene’s handmaidens themselves. As a result, we’ve developed our own ‘hierarchy’ of sorts. I report to a couple of people, who report to a couple of people, and so on until it reaches up into the branches of the palace itself. Conversely, I look after a handful of people, who in turn look after a handful of people, all the way down to the newest and most naïve floor-scrubber or seamstress. It seems to work, at least,” she added. “We all take care of each other, and most of us just try and stay out of the way of the Game.”

“I admit I wish I could do the same,” Delilah muttered, and Portia gave a clear, hearty laugh.

“I don’t envy you your public position,” she chuckled. “To have the eyes of the whole of Thedas upon you! It’s a wonder you don’t crack under the pressure. Which reminds me,” she mused, “we have some wonderful masseuses in Halamshiral. If you want, I’d be happy to summon one to give you the best spa and massage treatment we can offer.”

“Ah, no thank you,” the Inquisitor said politely. The last thing she wanted was to endure more comments about the thin red lines of vallaslin that traced nearly her entire body. The grass-green dress she’d worn to the masquerade at the Winter Palace had been revealingly cut, exposing much of her vallaslin as a distraction from the spies and troops smuggled into the palace that night, but the thought of more thinly veiled insults about the tattoos made her cringe.

“Well, if you change your mind, please don’t hesitate to ask.” From the knowing smile Portia leveled at her, Delilah had a suspicion the woman knew exactly what had just gone through her mind. “Anyway, what part of Halamshiral would you like to see today? We have an extensive artists’ quarter, filled with art supply shops. Or perhaps you’d like to visit a concert or opera hall? I believe tonight there’s a showing of the great drama ‘Trésor Nationale’. The lead actor, Nikola la Cellule, is supposedly said to be quite handsome, but personally, I don’t see it,” she added in a conspiratorially low voice.

“Actually, I was hoping to revisit the chevalier training grounds,” Sutherland interrupted. “Ser Rémi-Matthieu gave me permission to join some of the training exercises today, and I’m loathe to give up such an opportunity.”

“That sounds reasonable.” Portia snapped her fingers, and almost as if appearing out of thin air, another servant appeared at her side. The young woman bowed to Sutherland without meeting his eyes.

“If you please, ser, I’d be happy to escort you to the chevalier training complex,” she murmured.

Sutherland gave her a kind smile. “I’d be delighted to be escorted by such a lovely lady. Please, lead the way.” And with that, the two set off for the complex.

“What about you two? Is there anything in particular you’re wanting to see?” Portia asked Delilah and Harding.

“I’d actually love to get my hands on whatever maps you have of the surrounding areas,” the scout replied. “The more detailed, the better.”

“We’ve got some of Orlais’ finest cartographers, who would be happy to show you whatever you need.” Another snap of the fingers summoned another servant, who led Harding away with a bow. “Well, I suppose that leaves just you and me!” Portia said cheerfully to Delilah. “What may I show you?”

“I’ve always heard Halamshiral has a fine library,” Delilah said casually. “I’m eager to see how it compares to Skyhold’s.”

Portia beamed, then led Delilah down a cobbled street. “We’ve got the biggest library outside of Val Royeaux itself,” she rattled off as they walked. Merchants were just now opening their shops for the day, and the chill air quickly filled with the hawking cries of the vendors and the rich aromas of cooking bread, spices, and meats. “Our library has nearly two million books about every single subject you could ever hope to study.”

For a moment, Delilah forgot the plan, forgot the role she was playing, and just gaped at the short woman. “Two _million!?_ ” The number was almost beyond her ability to fathom.

Portia swelled with pride at the tone. “One million, eight hundred and seventy four thousand, six hundred and ninety three, by the last estimate. Val Royeaux boasts a library of at least twice as many books.”

Delilah made an effort to close her mouth, and settled for shaking her head in astonishment. “Dirthamen’enaste,” she muttered. The redhead’s lips quirked.

“Quite so,” she replied, and the two continued down the road. It only took them a handful of minutes to reach the library, a grand building of soaring marble and gilded statues. Even with the usual gross Orlesian opulence, Delilah had to admit it was a stunning piece of architecture.

Inside was quiet, but activity still flurried in every corner. Scholars of every color, age, and gender sat at round tables, leaned on counters, quietly talking or reading. A handful of librarians pushed carts full of books, re-shelving and organizing. Every single wall was covered in shelves, heavy with thick tomes, rising floor to ceiling. Thin ladders leaned against the walls every twenty or thirty feet, allowing the patrons to reach the tops of the shelves. Far to the left and the right, Delilah could see grand staircases leading up to the second and third levels of the building, with even more heavy shelves and scholars.

This library made the one at Skyhold look like a dingy broom closet.

“What do you think?” Portia said softly.

“I…I don’t have the words,” Delilah murmured. “It’s incredible.”

Portia laid a gentle hand on the elf’s shoulder. “I’m glad you like it,” she smiled. “Come on, let me show you the information area. It’ll explain how the library is organized, and how to find any single book here that you could possibly want.”

The two women made their way to the information center, where a wrinkled old lady peering through a thick pair of spectacles did her best to explain their system of organization. The woman called it the “système décimal dewey”, though honestly not a word of it made any sense to Delilah – though it could be partially because the explanation was littered with words in Orlesian, a language of which she knew only a few customary phrases and random words.

“What do you have on early Dalish culture?” Delilah asked. “From before the Glory age?”

The librarian seemed to sigh. Her eyes flickered over the pointed ears, the vallaslin, the broad elven nose. “Before the elves were ousted from Halamshiral, you mean?”

She fidgeted beneath the old woman’s stare. “Yes.”

The old woman nodded, and to her relief, Delilah saw no disdain or judgement in the woman’s gaze. “I’m afraid we don’t have much from that time period, pertaining only to elves,” she said, standing and gesturing for her to follow.

Portia gave Delilah a nudge with her elbow. “I’ll come back in a couple of hours,” she murmured. “Or send someone for me if you need me.” With a cheerful wave, she was gone, her bouncing ginger curls disappearing around a corner.

Delilah followed after the old woman, who led her to a secluded corner of the library on the second floor. No scholars perused the single shelf the librarian pointed out, filled less than halfway with a handful of thin journals and a few worn tomes. “I’m afraid this is all we have on Dalish culture, from _any_ time period,” she said apologetically. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Dalish are generally reluctant to share their culture with humans.”

“Yes,” Delilah said absently, already scanning the shelf. The books with visible titles all appeared to be in Orlesian. Harding was fairly proficient in Orlesian, wasn’t she? Perhaps she could bring a few of the books to the guest house…

“I must return to my desk,” the librarian said, interrupting her thoughts. “Please, let me know if you have any questions or need any help.” With a kind smile, she tottered away back to her station. Delilah turned back to the shelf, and began pulling off books.


	7. Revelations

Sweat dripped down Sutherland’s temple. He stood nearly nose to nose with a chevalier, their swords locked in a deadly embrace, breath harsh. “Your sword arm is trembling, Lieutenant,” the chevalier said haughtily. “Do you wish to forfeit?”

“Like hell,” Sutherland panted. He pushed the chevalier trainee away and they circled again, swords held aloft and ready to strike. The midday sun beat down on them, cooking them within their armor despite the fall chill. As focused as he was, Sutherland barely even registered the ring of warriors and nobility that had formed around them, spectating their spar. “You trounced me yesterday, but I won’t let it happen twice.”

“Under orders not to lose, I assume?” the Orlesian sneered. He feinted, but Sutherland didn’t take the bait. “Does your own honor not demand success sufficiently enough?”

“I want to win by virtue of honor, duty, and pride, in that order,” Sutherland replied steadily. He stepped forward, and again the training grounds filled with the ringing and hissing of steel on steel. Their weapons were blunted, he knew, but he was still careful to avoid severe blows. Even a blunted sword could break bones, and even a blunted blow on the wrong spot could spell death. Whether the Orlesian would deign to return the courtesy, he didn’t want to risk finding out.

_There._

The tiniest opening in the chevalier’s defense opened up, almost begging to be taken advantage of. Sutherland went for it, his sword hissing through the air toward the man’s side.

He realized too late that it was a trap.

The chevalier stepped aside just in time to avoid the blow, and whipped up his razor thin rapier under Sutherland’s now exposed side. The blunted edge slapped against the thinly protected armpit, and the Fereldan groaned in pain.

He whipped around, flipping his sword through the air, and made as if to bring it down in an overhead sweep. As the chevalier made to parry, Sutherland twisted the sword and brought it down hard on the much thinner blade.

The rapier, much to the credit of its smith, didn’t snap under the blow. It bent down, down, until the point jabbed the cropped turf under their boots. The blade stuck, and when it unbent itself, the grip ripped itself from the chevalier’s hands.

Sutherland didn’t stop moving from his downward swing, twisting until he held the blunt blade an inch from the chevalier’s bobbing throat. Unheeded by either of them, the rapier continued to wobble violently back and forth where it had plunged itself into the ground.

The crowd around them erupted into cheers and applause. He slowly lowered his weapon, maintaining eye contact with the now unsmiling chevalier. “Don’t try and parry heavy blows when your own weapon is so thin,” Sutherland advised. “You’ll end up chipping, bending, or breaking your weapon. I know these are just blunted training weapons, but you need to take care of your real weapon. Better to avoid the blow in the first place.”

And to his surprise, instead of a snarky or passive aggressive comment, the chevalier trainee simply nodded, accepting the advice at face value. “You’ve bested me,” he admitted freely. “You’ve defended your honor, duty, and pride well. Your Inquisition should be proud to count you among its soldiers.”

From the corner of his eye, Sutherland spotted Captain Rémi-Matthieu watching the spectacle. At his soldier’s honest and free admission, he nodded in approval. “It’s no dishonor to lose a spar or even a duel to one trained so efficiently,” the captain said, coming up and clapping a hand on each of the two men’s shoulders. He fixed his gaze on chevalier and added sternly, “Though I don’t advise you to make a habit of losing spars. The Orlesian chevaliers _do_ have a reputation to live up to.”

The young man straightened, saluting. “Oui, capitaine,” he said clearly. “I understand.”

“Come, it’s time for break,” Rémi-Matthieu called to all of the soldiers gathered around. They all broke away, heading inside the complex, shedding armor and chatting animatedly about the spar.

Sutherland sidled up to him, stretching out the arm that his opponent had manage to get a shot at. Whenever he extended it all the way out, the muscles underneath groaned and barked in pain. “What’ve we got for lunch today?” he asked curiously.

“More of the same yesterday. Fruits, vegetables, cold cuts of meat, fruit juice – nonalcoholic, of course,” the captain rattled off. “We’ve found it makes for an effective diet, as our recruits undergo quite a rigorous daily training regimen and need the energy.”

“That’s an understatement,” Sutherland remarked. Just two days on their training field and his entire body was already bone-tired from the beating. “Commander Cullen’s own training regimen is nothing to sneeze at, believe you me, but if you ask me, this is just as brutal.”

Rémi-Matthieu beamed at the praise. “We take great pride in what we achieve here: ‘Pride in excellence,’ as the previous battalion captain always said. I’m grateful that we’ve exceeded the Inquisition’s expectations.”

“That you have.”

“I admit I’m curious, I had thought Inquisitor Lavellan would want to visit the training grounds herself, to compare to her own armies, but even in two days she has yet to observe us,” the captain said casually.

“Yeah, she said she had some other things to do,” Sutherland said vaguely. “Though she told me she would trust it to me and my report of it all.”

“I’d like to know her a little better. I trust you’ve talked to her since yours and her arrival? Perhaps she mentioned something in the city of which she’s particularly interested.”

Sutherland glanced at the Orlesian, calculating. This line of questioning was getting a little too close to home.

“Honestly, I’m not too sure,” he replied slowly. “I’m not in her inner circle or anything, she just trusted me enough to watch her back as we traveled around. But if you know anything about the Inquisitor, you’ll know how dedicated she is to her people and her heritage. She mentioned something about the library last night, maybe she went there to see what more she could learn. This place – the city, that is – has a lot of history behind it, not just for Orlais.”

Rémi-Matthieu hummed thoughtfully, stroking his short beard. “The library? Interesting. Perhaps I can gift her a book she may enjoy.”

“Perhaps.” The two men walked in silence for a moment longer. Then Sutherland said, “I don’t remember if I thanked you yet for the opportunity to observe and train with your men during our visit. Commander Cullen has worked with chevaliers in the past on darkspawn raids and such, and he always spoke very highly of the dignity and standards which your order holds itself to.”

A smile curled beneath the captain’s silver mask, and he inclined his head at the praise. “You honor us. It gladdens my heart to hear that my brethren throughout the whole of the Orlesian Empire are representing us with honor.”

Some hours later, Delilah, Sutherland, Harding, and Ilorien all met back at the guest house with the fruits of their labors. Delilah had an armful of books, Harding brought several rolled up maps, and Ilorien pulled out a notebook he’d filled with sketches and scribbles.

“Have you found anything?” Delilah asked Ilorien. Judging from the exhaustion on his face and the slump of his shoulders, she guessed his answer even as he drew breath to speak.

“No,” he grunted. “I’ve visited every standing ruin both inside and outside the city limits, and I’ve found nothing besides dirt, bugs, a few broken pots, and one giant spider. And,” he added, raising a finger, “I believe I was being followed for at least part of the day. I never saw anybody, but I had the sensation of being watched at several points throughout the day.”

“The chevalier captain, Rémi-Matthieu, was asking some suspicious questions too,” Sutherland interjected. “Asking why you haven’t visited the training grounds yourself, what exactly you were interested in about the city instead, that kind of thing. It could be purely innocent, but it’s possible we’ve raised his suspicions.”

“Could the two things be related?” Harding suggested.

Delilah sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s possible we were neither as subtle nor as charming as we thought we were being,” she admitted. “We might have worn out our welcome. As it is, we need to find this stash quickly, or abandon this before we tip our hand and risk the Inquisition’s reputation. Our organization is already on thin ice with both Ferelden _and_ Orlais, as it is.”

“I understand,” Ilorien said. “I don’t expect you to sacrifice all of your hard work building your Inquisition for my sake, of course. But like you all told me, we can’t just give up because it’s hard.” He met their eyes one by one, and Harding gave him a warm smile. “We _will_ figure this out.”

Delilah gave him a brief smile, then turned to face Sutherland. “Did you learn anything from the chevaliers?”

“Nothing that’ll help us,” was the reply. “Their history knowledge is largely based on Orlesian victories over the ‘ungrateful and violent heretics of the Dales’.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “I don’t even know all the history of it all and I know there’s more to it than that.”

“There is, but it’s too much to get into now,” Delilah sighed.

“What about you?” Harding asked her. “You said you went to the library, right?”

She rubbed her temples. “Yes,” she answered, “though it felt like much more effort than it was worth. Most of the books are in Orlesian, which I don’t know very much of, so I had to find an Orlesian-common dictionary and translate the texts as I went. There were a few that listed some of the Dalish’s better known stories, one of Brother Genetivi’s journals about his findings on the Dalish, and a journal that detailed some day-to-day activities of some minor official of about the same time period, but that’s all.”

“Well, that’s still pretty interesting,” Sutherland pointed out. “I know I wouldn’t mind learning more about your culture.”

Delilah gave him a faint smile. “Interesting, yes, but overall irrelevant to what we’re looking for. Though I did borrow the books I thought would be most useful, if you want to look them over. I hope you speak Orlesian, though. Working around their conjugation and syntax all afternoon gave me a headache.” She turned to Harding, rubbing at the aforementioned headache. “Harding, what maps did you get?”

The dwarf set them out on the ground, using stones pulled from her pack to keep the corners from curling up. “Well, when Orlais stopped expanding so quickly after Emperor Drakon’s death back in the mid-Divine age or so, then especially after the conquering of the Dalish lands, they began focusing on building within their own borders. So the next few centuries saw lots of construction throughout the country, especially in Val Royeaux and Halamshiral. A lot of Dalish architecture was repurposed or remodeled, but most of it was torn down to make room.” She shot Delilah a sympathetic glance, but the elf just nodded. While the erasure of her culture still evoked grief and fury, now wasn’t the time. “I found one map of what Halamshiral supposedly looked like very shortly after it was conquered by the humans, but it’s largely conjecture since it was made several years later.” She turned to face the two other maps she’d laid out, one next to the other. “ _This_ map was done about two hundred years ago, and it’s pretty similar to what Halamshiral looks like _today_ ,” she pointed at the last map, “with a few minor changes.”

Ilorien pulled the oldest map towards himself and examined it with a critical eye. “Of the Dalish ruins marked here, those that remain appear to be in the correct spot, give or take a couple dozen meters,” he said slowly. He pulled out his notebook and flipped through it, examining his sketches of what looked like the ruins he’d checked out. “Scout Harding is correct, nearly all of the ruins have since been destroyed between this map’s creation and now. The ones I’ve seen make up only a very small fraction of those marked here.”

“Come on, I’ve told you to call me Lace,” Harding chastised gently. She nudged him with her elbow, causing a deep blush to bloom across his wide cheekbones. “Only my colleagues call me Harding.”

“L-Lace,” Ilorien stammered, “is correct. Like I said.” He coughed to hide his embarrassment. Delilah and Sutherland caught each other’s eye, and shared a knowing look. “Um. But yes. According to this oldest map, there were nine large monuments around what used to be the main part of the city. Eight of them formed an outer circle, each dedicated to a specific member of the Evanuris – the elven pantheon,” he added, with a nod to Harding and Sutherland. “With the exception of Fen’Harel, of course. Of those eight shrines, only two remain standing, though they’re obviously in ruin. I checked both of them, and there’s nothing there.”

Delilah nodded as he spoke. “The journal of the minor official I found says the same thing. She apparently visited Ghilan’nain’s shrine regularly.”

“What about the ninth monument?” Sutherland asked. “You said there were nine total.”

“There used to be a temple in the center of the city, dedicated to the Evanuris in its entirety.” Ilorien pointed towards a building in the center of the oldest map, shaped vaguely like an eight pointed star. “Not very far from the Grand Library, actually.” His slim finger slid from the octagram to a large, oblong building that must’ve been the Library.

Delilah squinted at the eight-pointed building. That figure looked familiar, though she couldn’t figure out where she’d seen it.

It was Sutherland who pieced it together. “That’s the chevalier training complex!” he exclaimed. “These buildings around it must’ve been demolished to make room for the training grounds, and their storage houses.”

Delilah turned to Ilorien. “I suppose you haven’t checked for clues to the stash within the complex, have you?” she said lightly.

He shook his head, squinting at her as if he couldn’t tell if she was kidding or not. “No. I have not.”

She stood and brushed invisible dust from her clothes. “Well, I think we know where we’ll need to look next,” she said lightly.

Sutherland choked on the sip of wine he’d just taken from his glass. “You can’t be serious,” he sputtered.

“I’m quite serious,” she replied. “Ilorien’s said he’s searched all of the ruins around the city that still stand, with the exception of the chevalier complex, and that he’s found nothing. Logic dictates that the complex _must_ be where the entrance is. If it isn’t, then the stash is lost to history, buried deep in the earth.” She met their gaze, one by one. “I want to see this out as far as I can before I give up.”

Ilorien nodded. His dark eyes shone with the same determination she felt. She smiled at him, then turned to Harding and Sutherland. “I know you two aren’t invested in this like we are,” she started to say. “It’s not your heritage, and you’ve only stuck by my side out of a sense of loyalty-”

“All due respect, Inquisitor,” Sutherland interrupted, “but if you think that about us, you don’t know us very well.”

“Lieutenant?”

“He’s right,” Harding agreed. “Sure, we’re loyal to you, as Inquisitor. But if you think, especially after these few months of travelling together, that we’re not _friends_ , you’re sorely mistaken.”

“And unobservant as hell,” Sutherland added with a chuckle.

Delilah felt her cheeks redden as both of her companions gave her warm smiles. “I think I’ve gotten too used to being Inquisitor,” she said softly. “I’m grateful to have such good friends to keep my head out of the clouds.” Sutherland clapped a heavy hand on her shoulder, and Harding grinned conspiratorially.

Ilorien watched all this carefully, his gaze contemplative and soft. When Delilah turned to face him again, he drew himself up to his full height. “What would you ask of me?” he said tentatively.

She stared up at him, considering. “Would you search with me?” she asked. “This whole adventure was your idea. You’ve said yourself that this is your family’s story, your legacy. But I won’t force you to go with us. The chevalier complex will be heavily guarded, and will be dangerous. And if we get caught, I don’t know that I can protect us all.”

He didn’t even hesitate. “I’m going with you,” he said clearly. “Like you said, this is my legacy. I _need_ to do this.”

Delilah extended her hand, and he clasped it firmly. “In that case,” she said, eyes sparkling, “we’ve got planning to do.”


	8. Sneaking Around

Four hours later, after Harding sent Leliana an update via messenger crow, as well as a short nap to make sure they’d be energized and refreshed, Delilah, Sutherland, Harding, and Ilorien crept through the darkened halls of the chevalier training complex. Their boots made almost no noise on the polished granite floors, muffled as they were by rags tied around the soles. Though they had their weapons drawn – even Ilorien had produced a curious pair of short, curved daggers – Delilah had made them swear to use nonlethal force if at all possible. After all, these chevaliers weren’t their enemies.

Delilah crouched, peering around a corner before signaling that the hall was clear. Her long ears were pricked forward with how intently she listened for any approaching steps. From her peripheral vision to her left, she could see Ilorien’s somewhat shorter ears had done the same.

“The entrance will likely be underground, if it’s in this building,” Delilah had said earlier that day, as they’d all put their heads together over a brief dinner. “So we’ll need to find any underground chambers this place has: barracks, storage areas, basements.”

“I can help with that,” Sutherland had supplied. “While I was there I saw a map of the place in Rémi-Matthieu’s office. I know I saw a couple underground rooms that could be basements or storage or something.”

He’d marked it on their makeshift map of the building Ilorien had drawn up. They now moved as silently as possible towards the nearest of the two, tense and alert for any sign of the night watch-guards.

“Take the next left,” Sutherland breathed in Delilah’s ear, from where he stood behind her. She nodded, and once she determined the hall was clear, she took the left. “It’s at the end of this hall, on the right.”

They’d made it halfway down the hall when a scuffling behind them alerted them to the fact they weren’t alone. “Hide!” Harding hissed. Delilah ducked into an open door, followed closely by Sutherland and Harding. The steps were nearly upon them when Harding jerked Ilorien inside by the collar of his robes, the door softly clicking shut behind them.

The steps paused just outside the door, and the flickering light of a torch bled from the crack under the heavy oak. “What?” an exhausted voice demanded irritably.

“Thought I heard footsteps,” an equally tired voice replied. “Must’ve been my imagination.”

“Quit imagining, then.”

The two guards continued on, and soon were out of earshot.

Delilah loosed the breath she’d been holding, and finally turned to take in their surroundings. They appeared to have stepped into a large closet, filled with everything from a rack of swords to a shelf full of dusty potions to a mop and broom propped up with a bucket.

“Are you alright?” Harding whispered to Ilorien. He nodded, even though they could barely see one another in the gloom.

“We need to keep going,” he whispered back.

“Come on,” Delilah murmured. She took point again, peering out of the closet briefly before emerging. They continued down the hall until they found the last door on the right, like Sutherland had instructed. It was locked, but with a flick of her wrist the metal knob shimmered with a sudden layer of frost. She twisted the knob again, and with a subdued _snap_ of the frozen inner mechanism, the door swung free to reveal a flight of stairs descending into inky blackness.

She went down first, followed shortly by Sutherland, Ilorien, and Harding. Delilah waited until the door had been pulled closed behind them until she flicked her wrist again, this time igniting a small ball of reddish flame to hover above her palm.

“Red fire?” Delilah turned to see Sutherland giving her a quizzically raised eyebrow.

“It takes less time for your eyes to adjust from darkness to light or light to dark, if you use red lamps,” she explained quietly. “It’s a trick I picked up from some _very_ chatty Orzammar dignitaries.”

“I’d heard you visited Orzammar after Corypheus’ defeat,” Harding mused aloud. “What’s it like?”

Delilah snorted softly. “Malodourous.” That was putting it lightly – just spending one day in the city carved in the rock above an active volcano had left her weak and dizzy upon standing. The molten rock that flowed like river-water far beneath the city had belched forth gasses that reeked of soot and rotted eggs. Perhaps a limited sense of smell served the dwarves well after all. To her sensitive nose, every minute spent in the ‘open’ air of the city was miserable at best.

The little red light did little to illuminate very far ahead, leaving only the next couple of steps ahead visible at a time. The flight of stairs wasn’t very long, however, and soon they reached the basement proper. Various crates and sacks lay piled neatly on the walls, but for the most part the small basement was empty.

Delilah picked up a handful of unlit torches from atop a crate and passed them out. Then, holding her hand next to it, she concentrated hard on the waxy fuel that’d been slathered on the end, just waiting to be lit. A spark flickered between her palm and the torch, then with a muffled whoosh, the torch blazed forth with an eerie blue-green fire. Harding and Sutherland looked on with polite interest as she held the torch out to them, lighting their torches with the same mysterious fire.

“What’s the story behind green fire?” Sutherland said politely. The crinkling around his eyes betrayed his humor.

“Veilfire,” Ilorien interrupted, his dark eyes fixated on the torch Delilah held. “It reveals enchantments and hidden things, like runes. It takes a strong mage to summon it, especially not in a brazier designed for it. Having veilfire would’ve made my earlier searches much easier.”

“It might also have revealed our intentions,” Harding reminded him. She placed a gentle hand on his elbow, and his stare finally dropped from Delilah to the dwarf’s round face.

At the sight of her steady gaze, he seemed to deflate. Something like guilt flickered across his features, gone as quickly as it had appeared. “You’re right,” he murmured. “Of course you’re right, Lace. Come on, we need to find the entrance.” Harding held out her torch wordlessly, and the elf lit his own torch off hers.

“Spread out,” Delilah instructed. “We’ll spend fifteen minutes in here, then we’ll move to the other basement.”

Everyone nodded and did as she said. They checked nearly every single square centimeter of that room, even across the floor and behind all of the crates, but at the end of the fifteen minutes, they were no further ahead than they had been at the beginning.

“Come on,” Delilah said, nodding towards the stairs. “Sutherland, where’s the other basement?”

“Nearly across the whole complex. We’ll have to be very careful,” he cautioned. “Want me to lead?”

At her nod, they set out again. Delilah extinguished her torch, and the others did the same just before they opened the door at the top of the stairs.

Despite the mostly empty dark halls, and despite their relative luck so far, Delilah’s stomach still clenched painfully at the thought of crossing the whole of the chevalier’s complex undetected. Stealth wasn’t her forte – it never had been, she thought a little bitterly, as she contemplated her armor and battle magic, handcrafted to be at the fore of a fight. In this, Harding was better suited, with her scout training she’d received from Leliana. For Mythal’s sake, with his dark noiseless robes, even Ilorien was better suited for this, despite his obvious lack of battle experience.

As if she’d read her mind and seen the uncertainty and self-ridicule within, Harding caught Delilah’s eye and leveled a steady stare. She nodded slowly, and in the gloom Delilah could almost hear the scout’s voice in her head: _you’re doing fine. You’re in control. Just keep a calm head, and we’ll succeed just like we always do._

The elf swallowed, then forced her racing thoughts to calm. She breathed in through her nose, then exhaled slowly through her mouth, and soon her pounding heart calmed as well. Distantly, she was grateful to Cassandra for showing her that particular calming technique, following a string of particularly stressful missions that had left her a panicked, hysterical mess at the thought of another.

“If your breathing is too fast, you will get lightheaded and possibly faint,” the Nevarran had explained once Delilah had finally regained some sense of composure. “This exercise helps prevent that, and while you concentrate on the exercise, it takes your mind off of your predicament somewhat, and calms you even further.”

“Who taught you this exercise?” Delilah had finally found the strength to ask. Distantly, she’d heard Varric loudly distracting Dorian from her panic attack. The Tevinter would’ve been understanding, she knew now, but at the time she’d believed him to have as much tact as he had liking of the south.

Cassandra had sighed before answering. “Byron,” she’d said softly. “He trained me as a Seeker and was like a father to me. Before all of the fighting with the attempted assassination of Divine Beatrix, he spent a long time teaching me to master my emotions, especially my rage. I know your problem originates from anxiety rather than anger, but it’s still an effective way to bring yourself down from whatever emotional high you find yourself in.” She’d laid a hand lightly on Delilah’s hunched shoulder, and given a gentle squeeze. “If you ever need to talk, I am here.”

Back in the present, Delilah finally felt calm settle over her once again. Still keeping eye contact with Harding, she gave a small smile. _Thank you,_ she thought. The scout seemed to pick up on the sentiment, because she gave a knowing smile in return before returning to the task at hand.

Sutherland took point this time, creeping through the darkened halls one soft step at a time. Occasionally he’d hold up a hand, halting them in their tracks, as he waited for whatever threat he spotted to pass ahead of them. When he was certain they would remain undetected, he’d step forward again, leaving the dwarf and two elves to follow behind like a set of strange looking ducklings trailing behind their really strange looking mother.

More than once, Sutherland had them turn completely around and take a whole new route, to avoid a patrol of guards or an errant servant. Delilah trusted him and his sense of direction, but after nearly an hour of this, when all of them were tired and cranky, their limbs cramping from being tense and crouched for so long, their voices hoarse from the sparse whispers they dared use, she was ready for this adventure to be _done_. Stealth be damned, she griped to herself. There had to be _some_ virtue to going in, enchanted weapons blazing, leaving success up to fate and the skills of those on the battlefield, instead of all of this gods-damned _sneaking_.

Sutherland jerked her out of her reverie by holding up a hand again, making them all stop. Behind her, Harding’s already pale face was wan and drawn with impressive purple dark circles, and even Ilorien looked weary. “We’re almost there,” he murmured. “But there’s a guard in the way. We can’t sneak past.”

“I can incapacitate him,” Ilorien murmured, lifting a single curved dagger.

“No killing unless absolutely necessary,” Delilah reminded him sternly.

“I won’t kill him. Have some faith, Inquisitor.” With a faint smile, he slipped past them, keeping to the shadows. He crept forward to where the guard stood, just past a T-shaped intersection in the hall. Ilorien stood, back against the wall, daggers held close against his chest. Delilah watched as he fished in a pouch at his waist and withdrew a pebble, and tossed it swiftly across the hall where the guard stood, too quickly for the pebble to be seen mid-flight.

It clacked across the polished granite floor, and the guard jerked to attention. Readying his spear, he crept forward, head turned towards the distraction. The moment he was within reach, attention diverted, Ilorien leapt forwards. He wrapped an arm around the man’s throat, cutting off his shout, and slammed the hilt of the dagger against the man’s forehead – one of the only areas left exposed by the man’s helmet. The guard slumped wordlessly in Ilorien’s grip. The spear clattered on the ground, making Delilah grimace at the noise, but she and her companions were already moving. Sutherland and Ilorien lifted the prone guard and moved towards the door Delilah now held open, while Harding watched for any other guards drawn by the noise. When none appeared to have noticed the scuffle, they all withdrew into the pitch black room, and Delilah shut the heavy door behind them.

Red fire flickered to life in Delilah’s palm once more. “Is he dead?” she asked shortly.

“No,” Harding answered after a quick check to the man’s pulse. “He’ll wake up with a nasty headache and might have a scar as a souvenir, but he’ll be fine.”

“I told you that I could do it,” Ilorien reminded them all.

Delilah nodded in acknowledgement, and rolled her shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension building there. “How far are we from the basement?”

“Around twenty feet,” Sutherland replied. “It should be just outside that corridor, a door or so down. We’ve gotta be alert, though. We’ve got no idea when this guy’s relief will come by.” He nudged the unconscious guard with his boot, and the man’s head lolled limply to the side.

Leaving the guard prone on the floor, they slipped back outside the door and down the hall again. They found the door covering the stairwell easily enough, and after breaking the lock with magic again, descended once more into the darkness, Delilah in the lead with a ball of red flame hovering above her palm.

This basement was even more cluttered than the last one; racks of weapons glimmered in the firelight, crates upon crates of supplies, stacks of sacks, and there was even a bookshelf stuffed with dusty books and scrolls.

“Are we gonna have to move all this stuff away from the walls?” Sutherland said, a little dismayed. “That’ll take more time than actually doing the searching, and make a hell of a lot of noise to boot.”

“Perhaps we can find the entrance without moving the heavier things,” Ilorien suggested, as Delilah busied herself lighting a few torches with veilfire again and passed them out.

“Either way, we’re wasting time,” she said shortly. “If we don’t find the entrance this time, we have to leave.” She met Ilorien’s stare, and they both nodded. “We can’t afford to poke around much longer.”

“Then stop talking and start looking,” he replied. All four of them set out again, using the veilfire torches to illuminate every square inch of the walls and floor that wasn’t covered. The tense minutes dragged by, interrupted only by their scuffling feet or the occasional whisper, until…

“Here!”

Delilah jerked her head around towards the hushed call. Harding waved them over; behind her was a soft, wavering greenish light. She stepped aside as Delilah approached, to reveal an eerie glowing rune carved into the wall.

“Is this it?” Ilorien probed.

“Possibly,” Delilah murmured. She laid her hand over the rune and it seemed to pulse in response. “Perhaps if I…” She pushed a soft wave of magic into the rune, and as if in reply, images and thoughts filled her mind, knowledge that had been enchanted in this wall by this rune, millennia ago. Political upheaval, racial tensions, the threat of invasion. A knife sliding across someone’s palm, beads of red blood welling up under the keen edge. She jerked her hand away from the rune, rocking back on her heels.

“Well?” Sutherland said.

“This is it,” she breathed. She held her torch out towards Harding, who took it silently. “If I’m right, it takes Dalish blood to open the way – possibly Dalish _mage_ blood.” She gave a faint smile. “Luckily, I have both of those points covered.” She pulled a small dagger from her pack along with a strip of gauze, pulled off her glove, and quickly sliced the blade across the meaty part of her thumb where her thumb connected. In the sickly torchlight, her blood appeared black as it welled up. Ignoring the sting, she pressed her palm against the stone.

The stone felt so much colder this time, colder than the hoarfrost she could summon at will, as cold as ice that had never known the warm touch of the sun’s buttery rays. The rune seemed to suck at her hand, at her power, and she gasped as it seemed to _devour_ her magic.

As suddenly as it started, it was over.

Sutherland’s wide hands caught her by the shoulders as she sagged at the abrupt decrease in her strength. “What the bloody hell was that?” he demanded.

“Are you alright?” Harding fretted.

Delilah’s head swam, even as she felt warmth returning to her extremities and her strength slowly return. “I’m fine,” she mumbled. She pulled herself upright, blinking away the sudden fatigue. “It must’ve needed some of the user’s strength to open, look.”

Even as they spoke, a fine crack split the rune in two, shooting up and down. The crack reached the floor and split in two; likewise, the upper part did the same, until a set of double doors was outlined in the wall.

Ilorien reached out a shaking hand towards the doors, eyes wide in wonder. He hesitated, then pressed gently at one of the doors. It swung open easily under his touch, revealing a passageway sloping deep down into the earth. The darkness seemed to hungrily devour any light, and the air that wafted up was dead and stale, as if it hadn’t been disturbed since the days of the height of the Dales itself.

Harding made a small noise of amazement, and the smile Ilorien gave her was wide and warm. “Well, what are we waiting for?” he exclaimed.

“Hold on,” Delilah interrupted. “This is very exciting, but we can’t forget ourselves here. We don’t know if there’s another exit inside. If we close those doors behind us, we could very well be locked inside until someone finds us in another millennia from now. Someone needs to stay behind and make sure the door stays open.” She turned to Sutherland and Harding. “I hate to ask this of you after all you’ve done to help us…”

“We’ll make sure you’re able to get out safely,” Harding interrupted. “You can count on us.”

Sutherland gave a salute, but his smile was warm. “At your order, Inquisitor,” he said.

Delilah nodded, hoping her friends could read the gratitude on her face. She turned to Ilorien, then jerked her chin at the passageway. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s go make history.”


	9. The First Test

The stone seemed to absorb all noise, leaving their steps and breathing muffled. Delilah and Ilorien descended ever deeper into the earth, though their torches only illuminated the next few feet ahead of them. Behind them, the light from Harding and Sutherland’s torches quickly faded away, leaving them alone in the dark.

“Do you really think it’s down there?” Ilorien asked quietly. The dead, dry air seemed to kill his words as soon as he spoke them.

“If it isn’t, then we’ve led ourselves on one hell of a wild goose chase,” Delilah muttered. Her eyes darted back and forth, eyeing the uniformly hewn stone. The dark, cramped space made her uneasy, despite her carefully controlling her breathing.

How deep into the earth they delved, she didn’t know. At some point, the pressure made her ears pop, and she rubbed at them until the pain subsided to a mild discomfort. Beside her, Ilorien’s grimace and similar ear-rubbing told her he was experiencing the same thing.

“How deep does this hole go?” Ilorien wondered aloud after another handful of minutes of monotonous trekking. The air had long grown cold, but Delilah had grown used to cold-weathered regions and had warm leathers. Meanwhile, Ilorien shivered in his thin, loose robes.

Delilah struggled to shimmy off her coat without pulling at her actual armor itself, then offered it to Ilorien, who pulled it on gratefully. “I don’t imagine much further,” she said tiredly. It was late, and the tension of the past couple of hours as well as the lack of a proper night’s sleep was starting to catch up to her. She watched her breath hover in a silvery cloud in front of her face; beside her, Ilorien’s breath did the same.

Thankfully, it was then that they noticed the ground leveling out beneath their feet. The two elves shot each other a wary glance, then lifted their torches to illuminate what they could of the chamber they now found themselves in.

The room was vaguely oblong, perhaps fifteen feet long and ten feet wide, and carved from the same rough stone as the passageway behind them. The room was also completely empty, aside from a carved doorway on the opposite end they’d entered.

They approached the door, and Ilorien lifted his torch to illuminate runes carved along the frame – not the glowing runes that needed veilfire to reveal themselves, but the fluid and wriggling letters of the elvhen language: the language of Arlathan, and uncounted years before.

“Incredible,” Delilah breathed, leaning in close.

“Can you read much of it?”

“Much? No, not really. Enough to figure out how to open this door? Possibly.” She shuffled in her pack for a moment before pulling out several sheets of paper and a charcoal stick. She laid one of the sheets of paper over the carved writing, and began rubbing the charcoal over the paper to lift and mark down the indentions in reverse. For several minutes, she painstakingly copied the script that surrounded the door, occasionally mumbling to herself. When she’d finally copied the last rune, she straightened up, carefully tucking the charcoal rubbings into a green notebook that she put back into her pack. “I think I have the general idea of what they’re saying here.” Her finger traced over a section of the twisting letters, and her brow furrowed in concentration. “Lin mala la mir Arlathan sahlin nadas dar hellathen la enasalin, and so forth…something about the ‘blood of the dales earning its own passage’, or maybe ‘being deserving of its own passage’.”

“From what I’ve gathered, the elven language is very imprecise,” Ilorien noted. “Full of suggestion and beating around the bush.”

“It is. How does it compare to Tevinter? The language, not the country itself.”

Beside her, Ilorien stiffened at the inquiry. “I don’t understand what you mean,” he said tightly, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Your accent is Tevinter, isn’t it? I spent a lot of time with a man who’s from there. Your accent is a bit different from his, but you’re definitely from the same general area. Or at least, you spent a good deal of your young life there.” She stood, turning to face him. “You don’t have to hide it from me, I don’t believe every single Tevinter is an evil, blood-magic supporting, power-hungry tyrant that’s hell-bent on achieving godhood.”

He didn’t return her teasing smile, nor did he relax. After a moment, Delilah sighed. “Alright look, you don’t have to tell me your life’s story, or explain why you felt a need to hide where you’re from,” she said. “What matters is that we keep moving forward, and that I can still trust you to have my back down here. May I count on you for that?”

Ilorien was silent for a long moment before he finally nodded. “You may rely upon me,” he said quietly.

“Good,” she replied cheerfully. “Now come help me figure out how to open this door.”

The two elves leaned in close. In the flickering torchlight, the runes seemed to writhe before their eyes, as if alive. “The language is called Tevene,” he said after a moment.

“I’m sorry?”

“Tevene. The country is Tevinter, the nationality is Tevinter as well, but the language is Tevene,” Ilorien explained. “A common mix-up, just like Ferelden compared to Fereldan.”

“Ah. My apologies.”

“You said something about blood and passage?” he prompted, switching the subject.

“Yes. I’m getting the same idea as the rune back in the basement,” Delilah said. “I don’t recognize all of the words, and the syntax is pretty different from the elvhen we use today, but it vaguely details the tensions between the Dales and the humans, then talks about the ‘blood of the dales’ and passage. I think it’s the same information, but written where only an elf could read it.”

“Or someone with training to read elvhen,” Ilorien added.

“Or someone with training,” Delilah agreed. “But I could count the number of humans that speak elven on one hand. The number who could read it, even less so.”

“Something tells me the number of elves who could read elvhen is pretty similar,” he said, eyeing her with something she guessed was admiration.

Her cheeks darkened at the implied praise, and she cleared her throat a bit, keeping her eyes on the script. “I’ve spent my entire life dedicating the language and history to heart. But like I said, I think this serves the same purpose as the first rune, but this time makes sure – in theory – that only elves can move forward here.”

“So, what, we have to give it blood again?”

“I think so.” Delilah pulled off her glove again, wincing at the twinge that went through her hand at the movement, and scraped a fingernail across the slice, which had barely stopped bleeding a short time ago. A drop of ruby blood welled up again, and she placed her once-more bleeding palm on the stone doorway.

It didn’t suck at her strength the way the first rune had, but she still gritted her teeth at the awful cold that crept up her arm. From beyond the wall came a low grinding noise, and the door slid down, down, until the top of the stone slab was even with the ground. Beyond the gaping doorway was more darkness, but Delilah’s heart pounded as she stared into the dark. “Think this is it?” she whispered.

“Let’s find out.”

Lifting her torch, Delilah stepped through the doorway. Her eyes flicked back and forth, looking for treasure, for piles of books, for…

There were no books, no treasure. The two elves found themselves in another oblong room, the mirror of the one they’d just left, except this one had two features of interest – a gleaming, shimmering barrier, and a statue of a bear, its paws cupped in front of it almost in a pleading gesture. Delilah shoved her torch in an empty bracket on the wall, and approached the statue.

Its paws were not actually empty, she realized. In them lay a molded piece of metal, shaped like a deer curled up to sleep. One of its limbs was twisted at an odd angle, as if the deer had been injured when it’d been modeled after.

“What on earth is all of this?” Ilorien wondered aloud. He reached out and tentatively touched the barrier with his fingertips, then jerked his hand back as if burned. The barrier flickered and sparked at the contact. “A test of sorts?”

“’The blood of the Dales will earn its own passage’,” Delilah repeated. “ _This_ is what it meant. It’s not only about only elves with knowledge of the elvhen being allowed to pass, it’s elves with knowledge who also prove their worth who’re allowed to pass.” She scanned the statue and barrier again with a piercing stare, trying to figure out what it wanted of them. “Of course something so important that it warranted being hidden from the humans wouldn’t be just set somewhere anybody could grab it. These tests are as much locks as they are puzzles to be solved. _Fascinating_.”

“Yes, fascinating indeed,” Ilorien muttered. “But I hope you have some idea of how to go about doing this, since I know next to nothing about our culture. Assuming you’re right and this is, what, a test of how much you know about the elves?”

“If I’m right,” she said slowly, “this test is about what we know about the Evanuris. Specifically, Falon’Din and Dirthamen.”

“And they are…?”

“Falon’Din guides the dead to the Beyond, and Dirthamen is the god of secrets and knowledge. They’re soul-twins and are usually associated with each other.” Delilah pointed at the statue of the bear. “Dirthamen’s sacred animal is a bear, and Falon’Din’s is an owl.”

“I don’t see an owl anywhere,” Ilorien pointed out.

Delilah nodded at the barrier – or rather, through it. On the far end of the chamber, past what appeared to be a pit in the floor, was another carved door. Above the door, barely visible, was an owl carved into the stone. “If I’m right, this is about whether you and I know how Falon’Din and Dirthamen interact. Or more precisely, in one particular tale.”

“I’m all ears, if you’re ever going to tell me.”

She grimaced. “Sorry. The tale goes that Falon’Din carried a dying deer into the Beyond, where she cast aside her weakened body and became ‘as light’, and Dirthamen, not wanting to be separated from his soul-twin, searched for him and eventually followed him.” She pointed to the small metal statue of the wounded deer. “I think one of us is meant to play Falon’Din and carry that through the barrier, and the other will follow.”

“It’s as good a guess as any. Be careful though, when I touched the barrier it shocked me,” Ilorien warned.

Delilah nodded in acknowledgement, then scooped up the deer in her hand. The metal was cool, even through the leather of her glove, and seemed far lighter than it ought to be. “Wish me luck,” she said lightly, then stepped towards the barrier.

It pulsed and flickered where it touched her, and it almost felt like it was grabbing her, trying to pull her back. But two steps and a breath later, she was through, no worse for wear. In her hand, the deer statue began to glow, and disintegrated into shimmering dust that faded into nothingness.

“One way passage,” she murmured, before turning around.

On the other side of the barrier, Ilorien stared at it with fear and wariness etched across his round face. “Inquisitor!” he cried.

“I’m here,” she answered. “I got through, didn’t you see?”

“I can’t see you at all! You disappeared as soon as you slipped through.” He reached out as if to touch the barrier again, but seemed to think better of it. “But I can hear you. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. We need to figure out how to get you through the barrier now,” she called. She cast her gaze around for any other clues; there was nothing else in the bear statue’s paws, nor any other carved images to guess from. Even the frame around the still-sealed door was barren, though she couldn’t get close. Just like she’d seen earlier, there was a bottomless-appearing pit just in front of the door, too wide to leap across. How they’d make their way to the door, she didn’t know. But that was a secondary problem. “Any ideas?”

“Well, you said we’d each have to act as one of those two gods, right? You acted as Falcon-Din, maybe I have to act as Dirt-man,” Ilorien suggested.

“Falon-Din and Dirthamen,” Delilah corrected. “Good point. Dirthamen is god of secrets and knowledge, his animal is the bear, he’s the master of ravens, he created the varterral…”

“What if…what if I act on the secrets and knowledge part?” he said carefully.

“How do you mean?”

“Perhaps offering a secret will let me pass.”

Delilah hesitated, then nodded, forgetting he couldn’t see her. “It’s as good a guess as any. Should I plug my ears, not listen?”

“I’ll think of something not too embarrassing,” he said with a faint smile. “Ah, let’s see…When I was young, I stole a sweet off the kitchen table and someone else took the blame for it.”

Nothing happened.

“Maybe that’s not what you have to do,” she started to say.

“Hold on. Maybe that wasn’t a secret since someone else knew they were wrongfully taking the blame,” Ilorien muttered. He harrumphed. “How about…ah. When I was seventeen I attempted to join the clan that my mother had grown up in. They forcefully turned me away.”

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a low _pop_ , the barrier seemed to snap, then faded out of existence.

Ilorien stood there, blinking a bit, before a smile spread across his face at the victory. And yet, despite the mirroring smile tugging at her own lips, she couldn’t help but notice his was tinged with sadness. Not really expecting an answer, she asked anyway, “You were turned away?”

He nodded, smile fading. “Some clans are distrustful of outsiders,” he said hoarsely. “Especially those wearing Tevinter clothes and speaking Tevinter’s language.” He tugged down the collar of his robes, exposing more of the scar Delilah had noticed when they first met. The skin was blotchy and swirled, as if it were putty that a child had mashed on a table. “They burned me from my chin down to the bottom of my ribs.”

“I’m sorry,” Delilah murmured. She’d long learned to not compare her clan to others; _my_ clan wouldn’t kick out an extra mage, _my_ clan wouldn’t force someone to stay when they wanted to join the Inquisition, _my_ clan wouldn’t attack an outsider. Oftentimes, in attempting to show empathy, all that happens is inadvertently making it about yourself. Sometimes, all you could say was ‘I’m sorry’.

“Don’t be,” he said brusquely, jerking his robes back into place. “It happened a long time ago. It just showed me how disparate all the dozens and dozens of clans are, and how desperately they need to be reunified.”

“An interesting idea,” she replied, “but perhaps a discussion for another time. We need to figure out how to get past this pit now.” She nodded at the gaping hole before the doorway; too wide to jump, no bridge, no evident way to pass.

“Look at the sides, where it meets the walls,” Ilorien said, pointing. Just before the pit reached the walls of the cavern, it stopped just a couple of inches away.

“Those ledges aren’t wide enough for us to walk on,” Delilah pointed out.

“They are if we each take a side and lean across to use one another for support,” he explained, the gleam returning to his eyes.

She stared at him as she processed his proposal. “You mean all we have to keep ourselves from plummeting to our deaths is propping one another up?” she scoffed.

“That’s a bit of a negative way to look at it, but yes, that’s the general idea.”

She stared at the pit, thinking furiously. “It might work,” she murmured. “We’d have to go at the same time…”

“You said Falon’Din and Dirthamen are soul-twins, did you not? Perhaps this is the puzzle’s way of testing our reliance upon each other, just as those two relied on each other,” Ilorien suggested.

“Huh. Perhaps you’re right,” Delilah admitted. “Alright. You gave up a secret; the least I can do is try things your way.”

The two of them went to opposite sides of the pit, and leaned across to brace each other up. It was just wide enough to let them stay comfortably on their own ledges, but not so narrow one person could’ve crossed it alone.

“Ready?” Delilah asked.

Ilorien’s hand, fingers entwined with hers to keep a better grip, tightened. “Ready.”

They each took one step, leaving one foot on solid ground. Between them, the blackness yawned, absorbing all light from the veilfire torches they were forced to leave behind.

They took another step. Now all that stood between them and a very long fall was each other.

Another step. Another.

“Are you okay?” Delilah asked.

“Fine.” Ilorien’s voice was strained.

Another half dozen steps, and they’d reached the door. A narrow ledge extended in front of the door, giving them some purchase. Delilah didn’t hesitate to press her still-bleeding left hand against the stone, which slid down into the stone beneath their feet the same way the previous had done. The two of them leaped gratefully inside, happy to be away from the unnerving deepness of the pit.


	10. Arrows

“How long have they been down there?” Sutherland asked, his voice cracking from disuse.

“An hour? Maybe an hour and a half?” Harding shrugged. “Without a clock or windows to see the sky, it’s hard to tell time.”

The warrior paced back and forth. “Maybe we should go after them,” he said after a minute.

“You heard the Inquisitor. We stay here and guard the door, and make sure they can get out whenever they find whatever it is that’s down there,” the scout said firmly.

“I know, but it’s making me anxious just…waiting here.” Sutherland’s gaze roved over the crates and sacks piled in neat stacks against the walls, before he went over to the still-open passageway. “How far down d’you think this hole goes?”

Harding sighed and came to stand by him. “There’s no way to tell-”

A scuffling from behind them interrupted her. The two whipped around, weapons instinctively drawn, as the door to the basement blasted open and the sound of boots clacking first on the granite floors, then on the wooden stairway, filled the air. “Sheathe your sword!” Harding hissed as she hastily put away her bow.

Sutherland had barely lifted his hand from the hilt before row after row of chevaliers filed into the basement, their presence making the already small room feel claustrophobic. When nearly a dozen of them had entered, they split in two, revealing none other than Battalion-Captain Rémi-Matthieu himself. His armor gleamed in the torchlight as he strolled leisurely towards them, hands clasped behind his back. For once, he’d left his silver mask off, and while his face seemed relaxed and an amused smile played around his mouth, it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “What _do_ we have here? You two appear to have gotten lost. Were the tours insufficient? I dread to think we’ve offended the great Inquisition somehow.”

“The Inquisitor needed to return to Skyhold rather suddenly,” Harding said smoothly. “She insisted on visiting you one last time before we left, to thank you for your hospitality. I’m afraid we got separated in the search for your office.”

Sutherland watched carefully as Rémi-Matthieu stepped closer. _There’s no way he’s gonna believe that_ , he thought to himself as the Orlesian played with the end of his mustache. “I’m so sorry to hear that,” the chevalier replied. “The Inquisitor herself, lost within my training complex? I would be a poor host if I did not retrieve her.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Harding started to say.

Rémi-Matthieu lifted a hand and flicked a finger at her. At his side, one of the chevaliers lifted a crossbow Sutherland hadn’t noticed, aimed, and fired at Harding.

A wet thud sounded at the same time as Harding gave a short scream, and dropped to the floor. Sutherland dropped to his knees beside her. She clutched at the right side of her chest, where the end of a blue-fletched bolt protruded. Blood leaked through her fingers, already staining her leathers.

“What the fuck was that for!?” he spat at Rémi-Matthieu.

“Obstruction of a criminal investigation is punishable by death,” the chevalier said calmly. “Consider this an act of mercy. You don’t even have to worry about whether it missed her heart. If dwarves have hearts in the correct place, at least.”

Sutherland started to snarl a reply, but stopped when Harding’s small hand clasped his. “Don’t,” she whispered. Her already pale face was white as a sheet, her freckles standing out in stark contrast. As he watched, a trickle of blood leaked from the wound down the contour of her chest and neck, and pooled by her collarbone.

“Listen to the dwarf, Lieutenant,” Rémi-Matthieu advised, stepping over to examine the open passageway. “Where does this go?”

“We don’t know,” Harding ground out.

The chevalier half turned to glance at her, then snapped his fingers. Three chevaliers stepped forward, their faces blank. Two of them grabbed Sutherland and jerked him back. “What the hell are you doing, get off me!” he barked.

They all ignored him as the third chevalier squatted beside Harding, and casually tapped the end of the bolt embedded in her chest.

She gasped, back arching off the stone. “Leave her alone!” Sutherland shouted, thrashing against the men restraining him.

Again, he was ignored. “What’s down there?” Rémi-Matthieu repeated.

“I don’t know,” Harding repeated, her voice high and tight in pain.

He knelt beside her, and gently brushed a strand of her copper hair from her deathly pale face. “I don’t enjoy this, you know,” he murmured. “Torture isn’t part of our training. It’s not pretty. Naturally, the sooner you just _tell_ me, the sooner we can get you to a healer. I imagine that bolt is quite painful.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

The squatting chevalier flicked the bolt this time, and her whimpers echoed through the chamber.

“What’s down there?”

“I don’t know!”

Rémi-Matthieu reached out and delicately grasped the end of the bolt. The sheer pain and fear on Harding’s face tore at Sutherland. He thrashed harder, but the men who held him might as well have been made of stone. “Stop!” he cried. He didn’t care if he sounded pathetic or pleading. “Please, stop. I’ll tell you.”

“No,” Harding groaned.

The captain turned to face Sutherland, his face curiously blank. “Do you have something to add, Lieutenant?”

“Please, get her to a healer,” he pleaded. “Stop torturing her and I’ll tell you all of it.”

“No!” the scout cried, agony flickering across her face as she tried to sit up. Rémi-Matthieu pressed a hand against her upper chest to hold her down, and her face went gray at the touch.

At the Orlesian’s nod, the chevaliers restraining Sutherland released him. He jerked away from them, seething. “Start talking, Lieutenant,” the captain ordered.

* * *

 

The two elves took a moment to catch their breath. The puzzle room had taken more out of them than she’d expected – or at least, the pit at the end had. The threat of falling into a bottomless pit had caused a surprising adrenaline rush, and it took them a minute to let their racing hearts settle.

After a moment, Delilah lit a flickering red flame in her palm, letting them take in their surroundings. They were in another oblong chamber, this time largely empty. A metal brazier stood in the center of the room, loaded with kindling that, likely by magic, hadn’t rotted away over the millennia. Behind it, this time without a barrier, lay another deep pit, no bottom in sight.

“This pit doesn’t have ledges on the side,” Ilorien noted. “The trick must be different this time.”

“I don’t think anybody who took the time to design and build such a gauntlet would make two of the same puzzle in a row,” Delilah agreed. “But are both puzzles based on the Evanuris?”

“And how many are there?” he added.

“I suppose we’ll just have to solve them all and see. Now, if we guess this puzzle is based on the Evanuris as well, it seems all we have to go off of is this brazier.” Delilah circled it, brow furrowed in thought.

“Aren’t you worried about the giant hole in front of the exit that doesn’t appear to have any way across?” Ilorien said, a little derisively.

“Not particularly. The creator of all of this, the junior librarian, didn’t do all of this to keep people out permanently. They wanted it found, but only by an elf, and only by an elf who knew their heritage. It’s possible they wanted to keep out city elves or even elven slaves, in case they came at the bidding of a human master.”

“It would explain the cryptic puzzles,” he admitted. “Frustrating as they are.”

“Exactly.” Delilah drew to a stop from her circling, back in her original spot. She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck. “The only thing I can gather from this is remembering that Sylaise is the keeper of the hearth-fire, and that a prayer is offered to her before we light a fire. Perhaps if we do that, it’ll reveal our next step.”

Ilorien eyed her. “I’ve not seen you offer such a prayer before any of the fires you’ve lit,” he said carefully.

“I, uh…I stopped offering the prayer every time I light a fire,” she said softly. “You can imagine the Orlesian nobility’s reaction to the leader of a growing group of proclaimed heretics, an elf _and_ a mage at that, constantly muttering in elven. The Fereldans were better about it, but not by much.”

“I can imagine.”

Delilah approached the brazier, lifted a hand, and murmured, “Sylaise’enaste.”

A flick of her wrist set the brazier ablaze. The wood caught fire incredibly quickly, and in mere seconds the kindling had been completely consumed.

“More magic,” Ilorien murmured.

“Indeed.” Delilah watched as the kindling turned to embers, and faded away to a pile of ash. “I hope that wasn’t it, I’m not sure what else to do.”

Ilorien stepped forward, eyeing the pile of ash. “Perhaps…” He stepped forward and brushed his hand through the ash, then made a satisfied noise. “Success, Inquisitor,” he said, turning to give Delilah a smile. In his hands, coated with ash, were an unstrung bow and the makings of an unassembled arrow.

“Another puzzle,” she sighed, but smiled all the same. “Tell me, do you have a suggestion?”

“I believe the obvious answer is to assemble the bow and arrow, though that’d be difficult without glue for the fletching,” he answered. “After that, I believe you’d have a better educated guess than I.”

She accepted the compliment with a nod. “I believe it’s another pair of elven gods, this time Sylaise and June.”

“June?”

“The master of crafts. He taught us how to create tools, to shape wood and metal into armor, to tie all manner of knots that keep the aravels and their sails together. It seems we’re not meant to act as the Evanuris themselves here, but rather act as we’ve been taught so long ago,” Delilah explained. She examined the unstrung bow critically. “I’m afraid, however, that’s where my knowledge in this area ends.”

Ilorien gave a derisive snort. “You can read elven texts that the elves’ oldest Keepers can barely guess at, and your magic – to my knowledge – ranges everywhere from advanced healing spells to summoning a gods-damned sword made of mana itself, but assembling a bow is beyond your ability?”

She crinkled her nose at the mockery. “We all have our burdens to bear.”

He lifted his free hand in surrender, ceding the point. “My apologies. The stories made you seem nearly invincible. The dread Inquisitor, dragon slayer and tomb raider, conqueror of Adamant Fortress and the temple of Mythal.”

Her frown deepened. “I’ve got a lot of opinions about how Adamant and the temple went, as well as what I’m sure is a glowing reputation in Tevinter, but now isn’t the time. The bow and arrow, if you please.”

Ilorien’s lips twitched at the sudden bite in her tone, but he said nothing as he sat on the floor in one graceful motion. He laid the bow limb, string, arrow shaft, arrow head, and fletching on the stone in front of his crossed legs, and got to work.

Delilah watched with some fascination as his slim fingers deftly restrung the bow, then moved to the arrow. “Just one arrow?” she pointed out.

“Would you rather have to reassemble an entire quiver of arrows?” he replied, raising a dark eyebrow.

“Fair enough.”

The arrow’s parts must have been enchanted as well, because even though there was no fletching glue, the cut feathers stuck to the arrow shaft perfectly, as did the arrow head. A moment later, Ilorien held up the finished work.

“Now what?” he asked.

“It has to be something to do with the gorge ahead of that door,” Delilah said, turning to face it. Just like the previous door, there seemed to be no way to leap across, but unlike the last door, there were no ledges along the sides to make use of.

She squinted. Something appeared to be etched above the door. She lifted the hand that still held the flickering red flame, and with an extra push of mana, the flame spurted higher, tinging yellow to cast more light. Carved above the doorway was a deer, with a hole in its center – just wide enough for a single arrow.

“Do you see that?” Delilah murmured, nodding at the carving.

“I see it.”

“Something tells me we have to shoot that arrow through that hole.”

Ilorien sighed. “Just one arrow,” he said, repeating her earlier remark. “If we miss and it falls into that gorge-”

“Then we have to turn back.” Delilah eyeballed the distance and angle of the hole from the closest part of the ledge. “What are the chances that you’re an accomplished archer as well as good with your hands?”

He gave a quick smile. “The chances are fair,” he answered. “I admit I’m much better with knives than I am a bow, but I’ve studied both.” He did a few experimental pulls on the string, then grunted in apparent satisfaction. “Rudimentary, but it’ll do.”

He stood upright and headed for the ledge, bow and arrow in hand, and took his stance: one foot ahead, the other behind and angled slightly. He nocked the arrow onto the string, but just before he drew back, Delilah laid her hand on his elbow. “I don’t need to impress upon you the importance of this shot,” she said quietly.

“I understand, Inquisitor,” Ilorien said clearly. She hesitated, but nodded and removed her hand. He lifted the bow and drew the arrow back until the white fletching just grazed his cheek. Delilah kept quiet as he aimed, let out a slow breath, and released the arrow.

A low buzz sounded as the arrow shot forward. Delilah leaned forward, anxiously listening for the clatter of the arrow hitting stone and falling into the depths of the pit.

There was no such clatter.

“Did you get it?” she asked, barely daring to whisper.

“Yes,” he breathed. “I didn’t hear it fall.”

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, a low rumble shook the stone beneath their feet. As they watched, a stone shelf slid out from the ledge where they stood, all the way out over the pit to the door. And just like the other door, it slid down into the rock, leaving an empty doorway, ready to walk through.

Delilah exclaimed in delight, and even Ilorien gave a wide smile. “Come on,” she said, grabbing his hand. “The next puzzle awaits us.”

And with that, she half-dragged him into the next room.


	11. Duel

They took a moment to light the handful of torches that ringed the next, equally oblong room. At the far end, just like all the others, was a sealed stone door.

The rest of the room was empty.

“At least there is no pit to possibly fall into,” Ilorien said with mock cheeriness.

“But nothing else to go on, either,” Delilah pointed out. She approached the exit door and examined it carefully. The frame wasn’t etched in Dalish script, nor were there any holes for keys or arrows or whatever else the junior librarian had thought of. But there, carved just above the door, were another pair of animals.

“I think this is our clue,” she called out. Ilorien stepped close as she lifted her handheld flame to illuminate the carving.

“A bird and a deer?” he said, arching an eyebrow.

“A hawk and a halla,” Delilah answered. “The halla is the sacred animal of Ghilan’nain, which leads me to guess that the hawk is representative of Andruil.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The puzzles have been in pairs so far. Falon’Din and Dirthamen, whose soul-twin bond runs deeper than romantic or familial ties. Sylaise and June, both who have to do with homemaking and making things by hand, and are said to be either siblings or married. Now, Andruil and Ghilan’nain, who loved each other so fiercely they sent each other great beasts to hunt. Andruil even loved Ghilan’nain so dearly that she brought her from a moral existence to an immortal life as an entirely new Creator,” she explained with a flourish.

Ilorien gave a chuckle. “You appear to be quite the romantic,” was all he said.

“A romantic I may be, but it doesn’t really help us figure this puzzle out,” she replied. “There’s nothing in here to _do_. I’m a bit at a loss.”

“Is there nothing in your knowledge of Andruil and Ghilan’nain’s history that could help us?” he suggested.

“I’m not sure,” she replied slowly. “Perhaps since there’s no other clues, their stories work together.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The most common story for both of them is the story of how Andruil made Ghilan’nain immortal,” Delilah explained. “Ghilan’nain came across a hunter who’d shot a hawk with an arrow, and was furious because the hawk is sacred to Andruil. She asked Andruil to curse him so that he could never again hunt and kill a living creature, and sure enough it worked. The hunter swore revenge on Ghilan’nain. He hunted her down, blinded and bound her, but couldn’t kill her because of the curse, so he left her in the forest to die. Andruil sent a hare, another animal sacred to her, to free Ghilan’nain, but she was still blind and wounded. Andruil took pity on her lover and turned her into a beautiful white deer – the first halla.”

“It’s a nice story, but I don’t see how that helps us here,” Ilorien pointed out.

She sighed. “I know, sorry. I suppose it’s funny though that this would be the riddle to stump me.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

She glanced at him, then huffed a laugh. “I’m descended from one of Ghilan’nain’s high priestesses, dating all the way back to Arlathan itself,” she said, no small amount of pride in her voice. “Some clans of elves believe the Creators weren’t actually gods, but were just abnormally skilled mages or hunters. They’d argue I’m descended from Ghilan’nain herself.”

Ilorien sputtered. “Are you serious?”

“What a load of pig shit.”

They whirled around at the sudden foreign voice. Before Delilah could do much more than flinch, she was seized from behind, her arms held in a powerful grip. She froze as the sharp edge of a dagger pressed against the soft flesh of her throat.

Out of the shadowy doorway behind them, a deeply satisfied smirk on his curiously mask-less face, stepped Rémi-Matthieu himself.

“It’s bad enough that the Inquisition, with such a potential for power and influence, allows itself to be directed by a savage, and a mage savage at that,” he sneered, circling around them. “But to believe yourself to be descended from one of your heathen gods? Even we Orlesians aren’t so hubristic as to believe ourselves descended from Andraste.” He turned to face Ilorien, who stood frozen with his eyes fixed on the dagger, lips pressed into a flat line. “And you’re just a stupid city elf who is clearly too dimwitted and gullible to know better.”

“How did you follow us?” Delilah demanded. She jerked at the man holding her arms so painfully behind her back, but the only result was the dagger biting deeper. A hot line of blood trickled down her neck, staining her scarf.

“You were so kind as to leave the door open wide behind you,” Rémi-Matthieu replied cheerfully. “How considerate of you.”

“What do you want,” Ilorien said in a low voice.

“Ah, the rabbit speaks at last!” the chevalier exclaimed. “I was wondering if you knew how.”

Ilorien snarled in response.

The Orlesian tutted. “How uncivilized. What I want, since you asked, is the treasure you two have come down here to find.”

Delilah froze. “How did you-”

“You really think that your sneaking around was unnoticed? My dear Lavellan, you really have learned nothing in your time dealing with the Orlesian courts. The corridors have eyes, the rooms have ears, and all of them report back to me,” Rémi-Matthieu drawled.

Ilorien swore. “I _was_ being watched.”

“You all were,” the captain said, amused. “We don’t allow such important guests to simply wander around, unattended. We haven’t forgotten the last time the Inquisition came to the Winter Palace. You snuck in soldiers, entered barred sections of the palace, engaged in bloody fights behind closed doors, all under the pretense of observing peace negotiations between Empress Celene and Duke Gaspard. And here you are doing the exact same thing, in my own training complex.”

“And who did you support for the throne?” Delilah asked, attempting to distract the man.

The chevalier didn’t take the bait. He tutted again. “Stalling and playing for time are unbecoming of one of your command, Inquisitor.”

“I thought I was a _savage_ ,” she bit back.

“A savage you may be, but you still control one of the most powerful armies in recent history,” Rémi-Matthieu replied. “I was sincere when I complimented the training that your troops have received. Worthy of particular praise are your other two companions, Lieutenant Sutherland and the dwarf woman.”

Delilah grew still. “Where are my companions?”

“They’ve been taken to the complex’s holding cells, before being moved in the morning. Sutherland is fine. The dwarf is…less so.”

Hoarfrost crackled in her veins, begging to be released. “What have you done to Harding,” she said, her voice deadly calm. Not a question, but the cold demand of the Inquisitor.

“Just a prick on the chest. When your man Sutherland saw her hurt, he was more than happy to tell us all about why you’ve lied to us every moment you’ve been in my city, and why you’ve infiltrated my complex. A stash of elven treasure, eh? A fascinating notion to be sure, but unlikely.” The chevalier scoffed. “That being said, you’re going to take us through to the end of this gauntlet. If there _is_ treasure, Empress Celene is going to be very interested in it. I might even get a promotion.” Rémi-Matthieu stroked his short beard, seeming very pleased with the idea. “Regardless, your companions will be taken to Halamshiral’s prison to be held for trial for conspiracy, breaking and entering, and theft. As will you. I doubt the Empress will be so willing to let a foreign power with no controlling leash remain on our borders for long after this.”

“Is that what this is all about? You’re suspicious of us because you don’t like that we haven’t indentured ourselves to the Orlesian Empire?” Delilah demanded.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the chevalier scoffed. “That has nothing to do with any of this. Like I said, you’ve lied and broken into our best chevalier training complex outside of the capitol city. Now,” he said, turning to Ilorien, “something tells me you’re the one who dragged Lavellan into this. You’re going to tell me where the treasure is.”

Ilorien leveled him with a cold stare.

“I understand you want to keep this private, it’s your culture, et cetera,” Rémi-Matthieu mused, pacing slowly back and forth. “But understand this: I don’t give a shit. I haven’t followed you down here to walk out empty handed. You will get me that treasure, or Lavellan here will have significantly less blood in that pretty little body of hers.”

Delilah gave a snarl, while Ilorien clamped his jaw shut – this place, this history, this knowledge was not for humans. The man holding Delilah tightened his grip, and she whimpered at the pain that shot through her shoulders and back.

“I will not lead you to it,” Ilorien said, slowly and clearly.

“I suppose you won’t lead us there either, Lady Inquisitor?” Rémi-Matthieu asked her.

“Bellanaris abelas heem,” she sneered.

The captain tutted. “That didn’t sound very nice. Have it your way, then.” He nodded to the man holding the knife to her neck. The soldier silently lifted the knife from her skin, only to angle it more sharply and move to drive the blade into her neck. Delilah flinched, squeezing her eyes shut.

The blow never came.

She opened her eyes at the man’s low curse, and looked down to see his hand, still gripping the dagger, hovering just above her jumping throat.

“What’s the problem?” Rémi-Matthieu said in a low voice.

“The dagger won’t cut,” the chevalier grunted.

“The hell it won’t.” The captain stalked over and grabbed the dagger from his subordinate, then made to slit her throat himself.

Once more, the dagger stopped just a hairsbreadth from her skin. “Le créateur,” one of the men murmured. “It is magic of the foulest kind!”

In that moment, everything seemed to click into place for Delilah. She didn’t know how, but _this_ was the puzzle – an elf bound by a somewhat-hunter seeking vengeance who, due to whatever magics, couldn’t kill her; all overseen by another elf in position to strike against the hunter for his sins. In this scenario, she was Ghilan’nain, ironically enough. And that would make Ilorien…

Breathing a quick prayer that he’d paid attention when she’d told him the story of the two Creators, she shouted at him, “Andruil! Avenge me, Ghilan’nain!”

As his eyes met hers, she honestly couldn’t tell if he picked up on the message. Thankfully, it didn’t seem to matter. He took advantage of the two chevaliers’ attention being fixed on her, and flung both of his daggers at the men.

One curved dagger whipped just past her ear and buried itself in the middle of the chevalier’s face with a dull squish; Rémi-Matthieu was lucky and deflected it.

“You’ll have to be faster than that to kill me, rabbit,” he sneered.

Delilah wrenched her arms free of the dying chevalier’s loosening grip, turned to face him, and with a gesture pumped him full of lightning. The man flailed silently on the ground, then lay still and smoking.

She’d barely stepped away from the man’s corpse before Rémi-Matthieu’s sword flickered through the air, aiming for her face. She ducked, using the movement to grab her staff from the floor, and a deadly duel began.

The Orlesian’s rapier was faster, just a silver flicker of light in the dim room, and soon Delilah’s hands were covered in small cuts. A slice across her cheekbone, right atop her vallaslin, dribbled blood down her cheek.

Ilorien watched in awe as she held her ground against the taller man, holding him off with her heavy staff and the occasional flash of magic. “You think a stupid knife-ear like yourself can defeat a chevalier of the royal army? The captain of Halamshiral’s battalion?” Rémi-Matthieu laughed harshly.

Delilah snarled in response, and her attacks suddenly shifted. The Orlesian ceded one step, then another, and another. In moments his back was against the wall as he desperately held of her blows, which Ilorien noted were mostly physical – she was using very little magic. Then, with a flourish that he almost missed, she whipped the heavy staff around so that the blunt end struck the back of Rémi-Matthieu’s sword hand. The rapier was slapped out of his grip and clattered on the ground, where it rolled to the side. One swift movement later, the blade end pressed against the chevalier’s pale throat. He grew very still, his hateful eyes fixated on her dark, tattooed face. “Call me a knife-ear again,” she breathed, nearly nose to nose with the man, “and I’ll stick a knife in _your_ ear. Dirthara-ma.” With that, she flipped her staff back around and struck him on the side of the head with the round blunt end with a dull _thud_. Rémi-Matthieu’s eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

“Astonishing!” Ilorien breathed. Delilah stood rooted to the spot, breathing heavily. “You must be the most skilled fighter I’ve ever met in my life.”

“You learn a few things on the road,” she murmured, before swaying dangerously. Ilorien caught her before she collapsed on the ground, and he helped her sit next to the wall a bit away from the prone men.

“Are you alright?” he asked urgently. He grasped at her wrist, under the edge of her leather glove, to feel her pulse. It was erratic, as was to be expected, but her skin was clammy to the touch. “Inquisitor, focus on me. Don’t pass out on me now.”

Her head lolled back against the stone, her forest green eyes heavily lidded. “’M’fine,” she mumbled. “Jus’ tired. That took a lot out of me.”

“You’ve earned a rest,” Ilorien admitted, glancing at the unconscious captain. “But we can’t stop here. Come on.” He squatted, back facing her, arms held back to support her. After a moment, her arms wound sluggishly around his neck and her weight settled onto his back. He stood with a grunt, then snorted and shook his head as her golden curls tickled at his nose.

He’d just realized the far door hadn’t been opened when it made a grinding noise, and slid open just like the others had done. Adjusting Delilah’s weight, arms hooked under her legs and her arm and leg armor prodding and poking his sides painfully, he stepped forward into the next room.


	12. Revelations

Ilorien carefully set Delilah down by the wall of the next puzzle room. Her head bobbled at the movement and she stared at him blearily. “I’m alright,” she said quietly.

“You’re exhausted, stressed out, and likely hungry and thirsty as well,” he corrected as he rifled through his pack. From it he withdrew his waterskin and handed it to her. She took a long drink from it. Just as she handed it back, he shoved a short, dense loaf of bread into her hand. “Eat,” he ordered.

“I outrank you, you know,” she mumbled around the bite she’d just taken.

“I don’t have a rank,” he reminded her. “Just rest.”

“How come you’re not weak and wobbly too?” she asked.

“I’m used to long periods of little sleep or food. I don’t enjoy it by any means, but it’s tolerable.” Ilorien bit off a bite of the bread as well, and sat beside her. For a few minutes they sat in silence, passing the waterskin back and forth, sharing the bread.

“Rémi-Matthieu said you were a city elf,” Delilah said carefully, breaking the silence.

“I can see how he’d think that,” Ilorien replied, not meeting her eyes. He gestured to his clear skin. “No tattoos.”

“He was right,” she continued. “It doesn’t take a scholar to realize you’re not Dalish. The clothes, the accent, the way you carry yourself…you’re a Tevinter city elf.”

He snorted. “There’s no such thing. I was a slave.” Delilah was quiet as he stared down at his hands. When he finally spoke again, his voice was soft, hesitant. “The story of the Dalish woman who left her reclusive clan to live with her human lover…that was my mother.”

“You said she died escaping slavery, so that her child could escape. That was you?”

He nodded. “I managed to survive for several years, going from town to town, mostly in north Orlais. When I was seveneteen I tried to find her clan, the one I told the keeper of clan Eldarin that I’d come from. I traveled further north than I’d ever gone, skirting the Imperium. I crossed the northern Anderfels border and into the uncharted jungles. I found one of their scouts, but he didn’t speak Tevinter or common. I knew just enough elvhen from my mother to explain to him, but he refused to take me to the clan. He said he would ordinarily kill me for intruding in their territory, but since I was clearly of their blood, he’d spare my life. I…wasn’t satisfied with that. I tried to find the clan again, and their wards turned me away rather forcefully.” Ilorien gestured to his neck, to the visible part of the splotchy burn that stretched from his chin and down his neck before disappearing into the collar of his robes.

“This doesn’t really explain why you’re so determined to see this through to the end,” Delilah pointed out.

He let out a humorless laugh. “I said this story was passed down my mother’s line, didn’t I? The story about the stash of Dalish culture, just waiting to be found, was the only thing that gave me comfort during those horrid years in the magistrate’s household. I would daydream for hours about finding it myself, using it to buy mine and my mother’s freedom.”

Delilah nodded solemnly. “Though, if this stash is what we’re hoping it’d be, it could do more than buy two people’s freedom.”

“I know. My ideal plan is to take what I can to the Arlathvhen coming up in a couple of years, so that I may share it among all the Dalish there,” he said, playing with a tassel on his shirt. “I doubt it will happen within my lifetime, but my dream is to have all of the elvhen reunited under one banner once more. The clans would just be those most closely related, instead of entirely separate elven sects.”

“A noble goal.” she said. “I imagine Shartan felt much the same, when he and Andraste led the elves from slavery from the Tevinter Imperium. But how would such a body govern itself? We’ve got next to no idea of how Arlathan or even the Dales set up a body of government.”

“Considering their success, I’m not sure we ought to follow their models too closely,” Ilorien said with a dry chuckle.

“I don’t believe the elves’ failures can be blamed on ourselves alone, but I see your point.” Delilah took one last swig from the water skin and passed it back to him. “Perhaps there’ll be records of everything included in this stash. You said it was art and literature, right?”

“In theory. Nobody knows for sure what the stash is,” he admitted. “It could be a pile of gold, or of rocks. It could be technology beyond our comprehension. It could be a pile of scrolls that have fallen to dust over the millennia.”

“Here’s hoping it’s something we can still make use of,” Delilah said with a smile.

“Are you alright to continue?”

She stood, considering and taking inventory of her own strength. She nodded. “Good to go.”

“We ought to put some kind of barrier behind us. Captain Rémi-Matthieu won’t be happy with us when he awakes,” Ilorien suggested.

“Oh. Good point. I don’t know how to reseal the stone door, nor do I think we should, but…” She thought for a moment, then lifted her palms to the open doorway and concentrated. Thin beams of golden yellow light shot from her palms and webbed out across the doorway, like a shimmering cobweb of trapped sunlight. The beams thickened and joined one another, until the barrier was a solid, glimmering pane of light.

“It might sound odd, but your magic is actually quite beautiful,” Ilorien mentioned. She raised an eyebrow at the praise, and he turned a delicate shade of pink. “I just mean, it’s not all brute force and terrible power. The yellow is pretty.”

Delilah gave a short laugh, shaking her head, before finally took in their surroundings. They’d passed into another of the puzzle rooms. “If this room continues the pattern of representing two of the evanuris, this should be the last room,” she mused aloud. “We’ve had all but Mythal and Elgar’nan. And Fen’Harel, of course, but I doubt he’d be given a room for himself at this point.”

Ilorien glanced at her. “Fen’Harel is the liar god, yes?”

She nodded. “The trickster. He deceived the evanuris and locked them in the Beyond – the Fade. I sincerely doubt he’d be honored with his own puzzle.”

The room was fairly simple-looking: the usual oblong room, with a sealed stone door on the far end. This time, instead of an animal carving above the door, a wide orange gemstone, cut into facets, was set into the rock. In the center of the room was a standing mirror set on an iron pivot; hung on one of the walls was an unlit lantern with a shutter.

“What do you think we’re supposed to do here?” Ilorien asked, examining the mirror. He picked at a spot on his cheek for a second before turning away from his reflection.

“A lantern, a mirror, and a gem which is presumably a target of some sort,” Delilah mused. “In a room that’s dedicated to Mythal and Elgar’nan. I’m not sure how they connect.”

“Well, the previous rooms have had to do with the mythology of the gods in question, yes?’ he said. “What’s the story about Mythal and Elgar’nan?”

“Mythal is the great protector and all-mother, the goddess of justice. Elgar’nan, meanwhile, is all-father and the god of vengeance. If you want justice for a wrong committed, Mythal is the one you beseech. Even when seeking vengeance against enemies, it’s best not to beseech Elgar’nan, for when his fury is roused, it scorches the very earth itself, never mind your enemies.” Delilah examined the shuttered lantern closely. “In their mutual story, before time itself began, the sun always stayed at its zenith in the sky. Because of this, the land grew hot and scorched. Elgar’nan was enraged to see all of creation being burned away, and in his rage he struck down the sun and buried it deep within the earth. But he hadn’t realized that without the sun, nothing could grow; the land turned cold and dark, but stayed equally as barren.

“Mythal, in her mercy, urged him to restore the sun to the sky, but at a compromise: for half of the day the sun would remain in the sky, and for the other half it would slumber underneath the earth. With his rage finally calmed, together they brought the sun back out of the abyss where it had been buried, and placed it once more in the sky. Mythal also created the moon, to be a reflection of the sun and to take the sun’s place at night, as a reminder and a promise that the sun’s warm and healing rays would return again in the morning. Meanwhile, some of the sun’s warmth stayed in the ground, and to this day heats the holy Pools of the Sun in the Emprise du Lion, in eastern Orlais,” Delilah finished.

“Pools of the Sun?” Ilorien asked, curious.

“They’re large pools of water heated by the warmth of the earth, even in the area’s near-perpetual winter,” she explained. “They’re supposed to have healing qualities, if you soak in them. Great coliseum-like structures were built around them, I imagine to honor and protect them, though in recent centuries Orlais has defiled the Pools with statues of their human heroes.” Delilah wrinkled her nose in disgust at the memory. “Other than that, and the three high dragons we ousted from using them as breeding grounds, they’re quite serene.”

“High dragons?” Ilorien sputtered. “No, never mind. I’m not sure I want to know. Regardless, perhaps someday I’ll make my way east and visit. I should know more about my people’s history.”

“It’s always an honorable pursuit, discovering one’s own history,” she replied with a knowing smile. “But anyway, back to this puzzle. Now that you know the story for Mythal and Elgar’nan now, do you have any suggestions for how to solve this?”

Ilorien glanced between the lantern, the mirror, and the gemstone set into the wall. “They brought the sun back and created the moon to be the sun’s reflection, yes?” he said. At her nod, he glanced at the unlit lantern. “Perhaps it’s as simple as lighting the lantern, and using the mirror to reflect its light.”

“You think it’s that easy?” Delilah said, surprised. “The other puzzles have been much more difficult to solve. Surely the last puzzle wouldn’t be so simple.”

“Perhaps the librarian was tired by this point in her creation, and just went with the first puzzle idea that came to mind just to have it done with,” Ilorien suggested. “Do you want to try?”

“Well, yes. Let me see that lantern.”

Delilah flicked her fingers at the lantern, sending out a spark of magic at the fuel inside.

Nothing happened.

Frowning, she tried again. “Is it out of fuel?” Ilorien asked.

“No, even if that were the case I could set a fire inside just as I can hold fire in my hand for light,” she said, doing her best not to pout in frustration. “It must be enchanted to _not_ be lit.”

“Ah. And that is the trick to this puzzle? Or do you think it has to be a man lighting the sconce and a woman moving the mirror, since Elgar’nan is male and Mythal is female?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I suppose it’s possible, but unlikely. Chances are it’s just been enchanted to prevent lighting it magically, just to add another layer of difficulty.”

“Here, let me try and light it, just in case.” Ilorien reached into his back and withdrew a small flint and steel set; while Delilah held the lantern steady, he struck the steel across the flat top of the flint, sending a spray of sparks into the case. The wick glowed cherry red, and with a gentle blown breath, sparked into a small but strong flame. “Ah!” he exclaimed in satisfaction. “There it is.”

“Great,” Delilah said tiredly. “Now to reflect it off the mirror.”

She approached the mirror stand, which was nearly as tall as she and was cast of finely wrought iron. Glancing into the glass, which was still nearly spotless after a millennia underground, she turned it until it was at an angle between the lantern and the gemstone above the doorway. Ilorien closed the shutter on the lantern nearly all the way, until only a thin beam of light shone out, and aimed at the mirror.

After several seconds, and several small adjustments to both the lantern and the mirror, the beam of light danced across the gemstone in the wall. It began to glow a vibrant orange, and a low rumbling echoed under their feet. And just like the other rooms, the far door slid open.

“I can’t believe that worked!” Ilorien exclaimed. “That was incredibly easy, compared to the other three. Especially the last one.”

Delilah let out a disbelieving laugh. “Me neither,” she admitted. “Now come on, let’s see what treasure awaits us!”

He bowed, gesturing towards the door with one arm. “Ladies first, Inquisitor,” he said, a smile dancing in his dark eyes. She inclined her head, gracefully accepting, and strode through the door, head held proudly high.

This deep in the earth, the stone seemed to suck all the warmth from the air. Delilah shivered, as did Ilorien beside her.

It took several long seconds for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. When they finally did, she felt as if she’d taken a blow to the gut, the breath knocked from her.

“Where is it?” she whispered.

Ilorien turned in a slow circle, taking in their surroundings. They’d entered a small, round chamber, perhaps fifteen or twenty feet across.

And it was completely empty.

“It’s gone,” he said hollowly.

“Did someone find it first?” she suggested after a second. At the moment, it was a struggle to find words, to be articulate instead of just staring dumbly at the empty stone.

He shook his head. “I doubt it. An elf would’ve shared it, a human would’ve gloated about it.”

“These challenges were put here for a reason,” she said hotly. “They wouldn’t be made to guard an empty room!”

“What do you suggest!?” Ilorien shouted. His face contorted in mixed anger and despair. “It’s not here! It doesn’t matter why the puzzles were made! _Fasta vass!_ ”

“Whatever’s going on here, we’re not going to figure it out on a night of no sleep,” she said, struggling to rein in her own temper even as she tried to soothe his.  She touched his arm gently, and felt relieved when he didn’t jerk away. She turned back towards the door, and made to leave the way they’d come.

The stone door slid shut before she’d taken one step, sealing them inside.


	13. Renumeration

“Fenhedis,” Delilah blurted. She leapt at the door and slapped her hands against it, pushing with all of her strength. Unsurprisingly, the stone didn’t budge a single inch.

Ilorien joined her, and together they strained against the slab, but again to no result.

“Shit,” she breathed. “Oh Creators. We’re trapped down here.”

“Calm down,” Ilorien ordered. She barely heard him – her breath came quick and shallow, and her heart leapt high into her throat. Already she felt the walls constricting around her, burying her deep in the earth, never again to see the sun-

“Inquisitor!” She snapped her eyes up to his face. He met her gaze steadily. “Breathe slowly. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He waited until she did as he said. When her heart had finally settled to a more reasonable rhythm, and the fist of panic no longer had such a tight grip on her heart, he stepped back.

“We’ll figure this out,” he said in a low voice.

“Of course,” she breathed. Already her cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment at her moment of weakness, but she pushed it aside for now. “This has to be more than just an elaborate trap.”

As if those words were the cue it had been waiting for, a breeze suddenly sprung up – an impossible breeze, trapped as they were in a chamber far beneath the earth. The wind sped up, whipping at their hair and clothes and causing the torch to sputter and threaten to extinguish. Delilah shielded her face from the wind, squinting against the flying dust.

Behind them, across from the now-sealed stone door, the dust was converging upon itself. The vague outline of a person shimmered, then solidified as the creature stepped towards them.

They appeared elven, with the pointed ears and usual broad nose, but their eyes glowed like red-hot embers, and their veins seemed to pulse beneath their charcoal skin with liquid fire instead of blood.

“What are you?” Ilorien said, sounding equal parts afraid and awed.

“I am Reckoning; I am Renumeration.” Their voice was soft and echoed slightly. The fire in their veins pulsed more brightly, and they fixed their glowing eyes on their faces. “You’ve triggered my wards. How much time has passed?”

Delilah had to resist looking at the sealed door behind her, just to see if it’d opened. “Around eight hundred years, we think. Are you…you’re an abomination, aren’t you?” she said, nodding at the pulsing heat that radiated from the person’s entire body.

“An abomination?” Ilorien murmured. “I thought they were hideous creatures.”

“They’re as varied as the people of Thedas,” she replied. To the abomination, she said, “You look like you were possessed by a rage demon.”

“It was not always Rage…when I bound it and its brethren to my soul, it was Righteousness.”

“Brethren?”

“I possess four spirits within myself,” the creature clarified. “My own soul, and three others: Righteousness, Justice, and Faithfulness.”

“You’re possessed by _three_ demons!?” Delilah sputtered. She clutched her staff tightly, eyeing the creature warily. Beside her, Ilorien did the same with his daggers.

“I _possess_ three spirits,” the abomination corrected. “But that is not what is important. I know you seek the treasure left behind by Isyria, my love and fellow creator of these trials. You have suffered through much and come very far in your search…and you are very close.”

Ilorien caught Delilah’s eye, and through his mask of wariness, she saw a glimmer of hope resurface. “Will you take us there?” he said, sounding like he didn’t expect her to agree.

The creature shook her head. “I have been bound to the last door as a final protection. As that protector, I’ve been tasked to tell any seeking the treasures that there is one final challenge you must complete, one final _puzzle_.”

Delilah glanced around. There were no carvings, no braziers, no lanterns or mirrors or barriers. “What puzzle?”

The abomination lifted a hand and pointed at them with all the authority of the Creators themselves. “One of you must spill the other’s blood upon the door,” she said, her voice echoing around them. “Only then will the way open.”

“One of us has to kill the other?” Delilah exclaimed. “That makes no sense. Why have all of these puzzles designed specifically to allow two people to pass, then pit us against-”

She cut off as a cold pricking sensation crept up her spine, and turned slowly to see Ilorien standing there, hand outstretched, the very tip of his dagger pressed against her back. It had pricked through the thick fleece of her shirt and jabbed into her spine, but done no more damage than a scratch.

“What on earth are you-”

She cut off again as she realized what had happened; even as she stood there, she felt her magic receding away, fading off into the horizons of her mind until she felt shed be swallowed up by the distance.

“I had to make sure you wouldn’t kill me,” Ilorien explained, looking apologetic as he withdrew the dagger he’d coated with magebane to incapacitate her. “All the stories talk about how talented you are with your magic, I couldn’t risk you killing _me_.” Before she could get over her shock, he yanked a rope from his back and swiftly bound her hands. Delilah tried to jerk away, but he was quicker – in seconds, she was securely trussed. “I have to use this stash’s knowledge to free the rest of the elves from slavery in Tevinter, and deal the Imperium a serious blow. I’m sorry but that’s more important than even you or your Inquisition.”

“Ilorien, you don’t have to do this,” she said urgently. Even as he ignored her, the abomination watched silently, their glowing eyes fixed upon them. “Murder isn’t the answer here.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. He withdrew one of his strange curved daggers, and placed the tip on her collarbone. The edge dug into her skin, and she froze at the contact. “I have to do this.”

“Wait! I need to tell you something first!” Delilah blurted out. He hesitated, and she pressed forward. “Please, when you get out, take a message to Skyhold for Commander Cullen.”

Ilorien stared at her, apparently weighing his options, before he nodded. “Alright.”

“Lean close.” He did so, inclining his head for her to whisper into his ear.

She slammed her forehead down upon his temple. He staggered back, and she leapt upon the opportunity – and on him. He fell back onto the floor, his head hitting the stone with a dull thud. She pressed her fists against the sides of his throat, using the rope binding them for leverage.

“I won’t die here,” she growled. Ilorien gasped and thrashed under her, pulling at her wrists, but she straddled his chest firmly and pressed harder. When his writhing finally grew weak and his eyes rolled back into his head, she relented and slid off him. He lay on his back, coughing weakly.

“Call me selfish if you want, but I value my life more than historical artifacts, valuable as they may be,” she panted. Her heart thudded in her ears, and adrenaline made her whole body tingle.

The abomination, who until this moment had been still and silent, now stirred and turned their impassive gaze upon her. “Do you refuse to take this man’s life?”

Delilah brushed her hair away from her face, though it was difficult with her bound hands. “Yes. It’s not worth bloodshed.”

“The last great remains of your people, your culture, your heritage will lie here forever,” the creature warned. “Nobody else will be allowed inside, and neither will you if you are unwilling to kill for it.”

“Then let it lie there,” she retorted. “This would be a great find, of course, but no archeological find is worth coldblooded murder.”

On the ground, Ilorien had recovered enough to sit upright. He refused to meet her gaze as he rubbed at the deepening purple marks on his throat. The abomination smiled for the first time, and the inside of their mouth glowed just like a forge. Delilah shuddered at the sight.

“Do you remember my words of how to open the way forward?” the creature asked.

“One of us had to kill the other.”

The abomination shook their head. “One of you must spill the blood of the other,” they repeated.

Delilah blinked as the realization hit her like a blow to the head. “Fen’Harel vir ghilana. It just takes blood,” she said slowly. “Not murder.”

She squatted in front of Ilorien, who finally and reluctantly met her gaze. In his dark eyes, she saw shame, regret, and curiosity. “Untie me,” she ordered, her voice quiet. Without a word, he numbly undid the binding, and she rubbed her wrists as blood-flow returned to her fingers.

“You’re not going to kill me?” he said hoarsely.

“I meant it when I said this treasure isn’t worth murder,” she said firmly. “And I’m not gonna hurt you for revenge either. We’re finishing this together.” Delilah held out her hand, palm up, and after a moment he placed his hand in hers. She pulled out her dagger from its sheath on her waist, and pricked the pad of his pointer finger. He grimaced a little but a bright bead of blood welled up regardless. Nodding at the space of wall behind the silent abomination, she said, “Go open the door.”

Ilorien stood and approached the abomination, who stepped aside. He placed his hand on the wall, smearing the blood across the stone.

Under the smear of blood, just like with the first veilfire rune back in the basement, the stone cracked and split open. Two doors slowly swung open from the stone with a heavy _boom_ , revealing yet more inky blackness. Delilah glanced at the abomination, who nodded in confirmation.

“That room has the treasure inside,” the creature said softly. “The culmination of my lover’s life work. Isyria knew the humans would betray us and hid away knowledge and art and technology, to protect it from treachery. I was her confidante; together we created this gauntlet of trials, to ensure that only those worthy of this knowledge would reach it. We placed everything we could steal away inside, and placed a spell on every single thing in these rooms to protect them from the ravages of time. And when the new empire of Orlais broke their vow of peace, and stole their way into the city to burn and raze and destroy, my love…she died protecting the library. She did not even receive a burial. I know not if Falon’Din helped her soul reach the Beyond.

“I…was not at the library that night. I was here, in this room, finishing the final test. Through the connection we’d forged, I learned of Isyria’s demise. I learned _exactly_ what the humans had done to us, in treachery and deceit. I hunted down a high ranking Orlesian official, a general, and brought him down into this very chamber. With his lifeblood, I called to the spirits and took three into my own soul, bonding myself to them forever. I would use their strength to wreak havoc on the traitorous Orlesian Empire, and to kill Emperor Kordillus II. If you are correct and eight hundred years have passed…he is long dead.”

Delilah nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Even from a purely historical viewpoint, a firsthand recollection of the events surrounding the downfall of the Dales was an impossibly rare find. From the view of someone belonging to the culture that fell, the recollection became absolutely priceless.

“However, I underestimated the strength of these three spirits,” the abomination continued after a moment. They gestured to their body, to the charcoal-colored skin and the glowing, pulsing veins. “After a millennia, I have calmed them…but when I first bound them, they turned dark and twisted. We went on a rampage like I intended, but when the dust settled and I came to my senses, I hadn’t only killed humans – I’d killed innocent elves as well. I succumbed to my horror and shame and grief, and returned here to this chamber. As a replacement of the final challenge, I bound myself here just as one would bind a spirit. I would be the final protection of the culmination of my love’s work.”

The creature fixed their glowing orange eyes on Delilah. “I have watched your progress from the moment you first entered the passageway under the human building, the place which used to be the most sacred temple in the entirety of the Dales,” they said solemnly. “It had a wing for every member of the Evanuris, save Fen’Harel…the passageway you entered was built under the wing for Ghilan’nain, whom my love worshipped above the rest. Isyria was always entranced by the idea that our relationship mimicked that of Andruil and Ghilan’nain.” They fell silent, evidently finished with their tale.

“May we go inside?” Ilorien asked softly, after a long moment.

The abomination gave a long, weary sigh. “You may…and now, my work complete, maybe now I will be allowed to join my love in the Beyond. Goodbye, Inquisitor Delilah Iloweyn Lavellan. Goodbye, Ilorien Marcus Va’Hirannis. Dareth shiral.”

Just like when they’d appeared, their outline blurred and shimmered, and they faded away right before their eyes, until nothing was left except for a few motes of dust flickering in past in the light from the torches. The only way out appeared to be forward.

For several seconds, there was only silence as the two elves processed exactly what had just happened.

“’Marcus’?” Delilah said, breaking the tenuous silence.                

“I…my mother gave me my names,” Ilorien said, shaking his head. “Ilorien is a name from her clan. Marcus is the name of my father.”

“Oh…my middle name is from my father as well.”

“I don’t regret my actions earlier,” Ilorien said abruptly. “I’m still set in my convictions and determined to see it through. But…for what it’s worth, I’m grateful that no real bloodshed was necessary. You’d be the single greatest loss for the Dalish since Ameridan’s disappearance.”

Delilah gave a quick smile, though it faded at the sight of the vivid purple bruises that had started to bloom on his neck. “I’m grateful too,” she said. “Don’t worry, I don’t hold a grudge against you. You believed it was necessary, and in a way I admire your conviction. Now come on, we’re so close.”

“Perhaps I should go in first,” he said hastily, grimacing. “Since, I mean, it’s my fault that you can’t use your magic at the moment.”

She burst out laughing, much to his chagrin. His cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment.

“What?” he demanded.

“Didn’t you see my duel with Rémi-Matthieu? Did you forget how I took you down? Do you truly believe _magic_ is the only defense I have? I may not have as much brute strength as Sutherland nor as much speed as Harding, but I’ve been trained how to use my staff to beat enemies over the head if I must,” she explained, still laughing a bit. “I appreciate your concern, but it’s unfounded. Even now I feel my magic slowly returning. Come on.”

Leaving Ilorien behind, sputtering and flustered, Delilah strode forward, through the stone doorway and beyond.


	14. Discovery of the Millennium

The darkness seemed to gobble up the light cast by their torches. The room appeared to be fairly large, but it was hard to judge when they could see so little. Delilah cast about for any sconces in the walls, and when she succeeded, she set about lighting them. Across from her, Ilorien did the same.

After less than a minute, the entire room was slowly illuminated. When every sconce had been lit, and the torches placed in empty brackets placed on two of the pillars supporting the ceiling, the two elves simply stood there, gaping and sucking in the sight of what lay before them.

Mounds and mounds of artifacts were piled everywhere, stacked in crates and stuffed on shelves and piled upon every single surface. On one side, dozens of canvases were leaned against the wall; on the closest one, Delilah could faintly make out a recreation of what appeared to be a sprawling garden, overflowing with unfamiliar flowers.

Ilorien walked over to a wide table piled high with caskets of glittering jewelry, and lifted a heavy golden necklace from the nearest box. The finely+ wrought gold supported impossibly large rubies, each flawlessly cut and at least the size of a chicken’s egg. “Every single piece here is likely worth a fortune in and of itself,” he said, awed. He set the necklace back down, and turned to examine the next box, which was filled to overflowing with engraved silver coins. “I can’t even begin to comprehend how much all of this would be worth, even before taking into account their historical value.”

“And if these are the unimportant pieces that the librarian could steal away with nobody noticing, can you even begin to imagine just what the bigger and more important artifacts would have been?” Delilah leaned in to peer at a slim shelf packed with vials of differing shapes and sizes, each filled with a different colored liquid. Their labels were faded, but she could faintly make out swirling lettering upon them. “What on earth are these potions for?” she wondered aloud, picking one up and swirling it around.

“Who knows?” Ilorien replied, glancing from where he now stood, gently brushing his fingers over a spool of cloth that looked woven so fine, the entire bolt’s worth could’ve been passed through the eye of a needle. “Does it say on the label?”

“It’s too faded to see, at least in this lighting,” she answered, and set the vial back down. She turned on the spot, taking in the rest of the room; towering bookcases lined the walls, each packed to overflowing with ancient and dusty tomes. Every single title along the spines was in elvhen. She swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat, and tears pricked her eyes as emotion swelled inside her. “How long did it take to accumulate all of this?” she whispered. “What knowledge of our culture is kept here, that we’ve all considered lost for millennia?”

“How is it even still _here,_ ” Ilorien pointed out. “After eight hundred years, the paper and cloth ought to have rotted away. Same for the leather and even the wooden shelves, in likelihood. Only metal would remain, and even then it wouldn’t be in nearly such good condition as it is.” He picked up a slim golden diadem, formed to look like a rising sun casting its beams over the earth, as if to illustrate his point. “I’m delighted this is all here but _how the hell is it here?_ ”

“The abomination said something about enchanting everything to protect it from time,” Delilah answered. “Only magic would keep it all so pristine after so many centuries. It looks like they were telling us the truth about it.”

“Time magic? I’ve only heard whispers of spells like that. Have you ever seen magic that could preserve things for a thousand years, without the spell fading away?”

“Personally? No. But I’ve seen some pretty unexplainable things during my life, even more so once I joined the Inquisition,” she admitted. She pulled open a glass-doored cabinet to examine its contents: strange contraptions, none bigger than her fist, each littered with buttons and switches and strange symbols. She picked up one such doodad and peered at it, noting that whatever mechanisms were inside were still quietly ticking along, vibrating ever so gently in her hand. “Magic is infinitely more complex and beautiful and dangerous than anybody understands, even the most studied of grand enchanters or Dalish Keepers. There’s no limit to what it can achieve, if one has the imagination necessary to use it.”

Ilorien nodded, then picked up what looked like a plain leather pouch, small enough to fix on a belt. “Hm, it’s empty,” he muttered, flipping the top open and shaking it. His fingers slipped and he fumbled the pouch, nearly dropping it on the floor.

When he reached hastily out to grab it, his hand slipped and slid inside the pouch – and kept going all the way up to his elbow.

He swore loudly in Tevine and violently shook his arm until the pouch slid off. It fell to the ground with a faint _plop_ , and sat there innocently.

“Are you alright?” Delilah exclaimed, rushing over. Aside from being unusually pale, he seemed to be in one piece – and his arm seemed alright as well.

“What the _futuere aeternum_ was that?” Ilorien demanded, breathing heavily. “There is more room inside that thing than there appears to be!”

“It’s bigger on the inside?” she asked, mystified. Delilah picked up the innocuous-looking leather pouch and examined it closely. It appeared to be just a little stretch of leather, sewn into a basic belt pouch, but if it were enchanted…

She stuck her own arm inside.

It kept sliding up, all the way to her shoulder. She wiggled the fingers of her hand inside; she felt her hand brush against expansive walls of the same supple leather the pouch was made of, but otherwise it appeared to be empty. “Incredible,” she breathed. “I wonder what this was used for. Smuggling, perhaps?”

“How big is the inside?”

“It’s hard to tell. Perhaps it’s simply however big as it needs to be,” she guessed. She laid it down on a table, turning to examine the rest of the treasures.

A single stand in a corner caught her eye, and she wandered over to find a thick, leather-bound tome, evidently hand-stitched and simply decorated. Delilah lifted the book up and blew off the dust, and opened it up.

“Ilorien!”

There was a large clanging sound before he appeared, wide-eyed. “What is it, what’s wrong?” he panted. Behind him, a stack of silver and golden plates had been knocked onto the floor in his haste; one of them still spun lazily on its side for a moment before clattering flat onto the stone.

“No, nothing’s wrong,” she reassured him. “Just the opposite, look at this!”

She moved closer to a brazier, casting the flickering light over the hand-written pages. The author of this book had painstakingly written out a compendium of the elvhen language, including translations of what appeared to be several hundred common words into both Orlesian and common languages, as well as a detailed explanation of elvhen punctuation, syntax, pronunciation, grammar, and even some etymology. Following that were written every single Dalish legend and story, even some Delilah had never seen before. At the end, of arguably most interest, was written an index of what must’ve been every single item in the room – including its purpose and use. She flipped through the pages, hundreds of them. The librarian had even included a list of every single book on the shelves, along with a brief synopsis!

This book she held in her hands was easily the most valuable thing in the whole of Thedas, she decided.

“Astonishing,” Ilorien said in awe. “Is that really how to read elvhen?”

“This could set our people ahead by centuries,” she whispered. “So much of our culture, lost. Yet I hold in my hands our very _language_ , or beliefs. This room could teach us things we’ve forgotten, and right now couldn’t even imagine.” Delilah looked up at him, her face radiant with delight. “You were right. This has to be the greatest archeological find of the millennia, if not all history.”

Ilorien grinned back. “There’s just one problem, though.”

“Oh? What problem is that?”

He threw his arms wide, taking in the entirety of the room and its contents. “There’s absolutely no way for us to carry all of this out of this room, let alone get it past the chevaliers. I am fairly certain by now they’ll have discovered the unconscious guard we left in the closet. They will be looking for us.”

Delilah sighed. “You’re right. Of course you’re right, how on earth will we-”

Her eye fell upon the unassuming little leather pouch she’d set upon a table. A cunning smile curled her lips.

“I’ve got an idea.”

Well over an hour later, Delilah and Ilorien reemerged from the subterranean passageway that led out from the chevalier training complex’s basement. The two elves were covered in dust and dirt, and out of breath from the long uphill trek, when they finally stepped back on the even gray stone. Her eyes immediately fell upon a dark stain on the floor, and she swore she felt her heart stutter in her chest.

How the hell had she forgotten? Harding had been hurt, Rémi-Matthieu had implied as much. Judging from the rage that now rippled off Ilorien’s slim frame, he hadn’t forgotten, nor had he forgiven.

She briefly considered the two chevaliers they’d left deep within the earth, one of whom was unconscious but alive. To Delilah and Ilorien’s credit, they’d left every passageway open behind them, so the captain could escape as well whenever he awoke. Now, remembering that Rémi-Matthieu had hurt Harding, severely by the look of the drying puddle of blood, she wished to Elgar’nan that she’d killed the man too.

“Come on,” she said in a clipped tone, and headed up the stairs.

Delilah kicked open the door at the top of the stairwell, effectively scaring the piss out of the guard stationed beside the door. Before he could recover, she pulled her dagger free of its sheath on her belt and pressed it against the soft flesh of his throat.

“Where did they take the dwarf and the warrior?” she asked, as softly as a lover’s whisper. The man’s throat bobbed anxiously. If he considered lying to them, he didn’t show it.

“They were taken to the cells,” he babbled. “Down that hall, second door on the left. You can’t miss it.” A bead of sweat slid down his temple.

“Thanks,” she said, before smacking the hilt of her dagger against the man’s temple. His eyes rolled back in his head and he slumped to the ground silently. She turned to Ilorien, her face set in determination. “Now it’s _your_ turn to help _me_ get something I want.”

He met her gaze steadily. “Lead the way, Inquisitor.”

* * *

 

The cells were barely more than a typical storage-sized room with a wall of bars portioning off a slice of floor space, and a bench for a guard to sit on as he watched any prisoners.

Aside from Harding and Sutherland, the room was empty. The latter of the two leapt up from where he’d been sat, and gripped the bars tightly. “Inquisitor!” he gasped. “Ilorien! You made it out!”

Delilah ignored him, her focus fixed upon Harding’s too-still form. “Is she…?”

“She’s breathing,” Sutherland answered, his features darkening with rage. “The bastard put a fucking crossbow bolt in her chest and hasn’t given her medical attention. I don’t know how she hasn’t…”

Ilorien jerked helplessly on the door to her cell, and snarled when it remained shut. “Is there a key?” he demanded, not even turning to face Delilah as he spoke.

“I can do it.” Just like with the other doors, she closed her hand around the locking mechanism of the steel bars and willed hoarfrost into her veins. Frost coated the metal under and around her hand, slim spikes of ice forming in the narrow crevices, and with a metallic _crack_ she heard the inner mechanisms shatter. She tugged on the metal bars, and the door swung open.

Ilorien fell to his knees at Harding’s side, gaping in open-mouthed horror at the blood caked on her chest, the bolt still protruding from her right side, and at her face, as pale as death. “Oh Lace,” he whispered, brushing a strand of her hair out of her face with a shaking hand. Compared to her pallid complexion, her hair seemed as bright red as the blood staining her front.

“Let me,” Delilah murmured, kneeling on Harding’s other side. “I’m a healer.”

For a moment Ilorien didn’t move, but then he nodded and moved to the side. She jerked off her leather gloves and held her hands above the wound, taking care not to touch the bolt still embedded in her chest, and pushed out a wave of healing magic. First, to understand exactly what damage had been done; second, to begin slowly pushing the bolt out, healing the muscles and veins behind it as she went to avoid letting the scout bleed out.

As deep as the bolt had gone, relatively speaking, it took several minutes of uninterrupted work to fully remove it. Delilah pushed out another wave of magic to check if she’d healed everything that had been torn when the bolt violently ripped through the tissue, but everything seemed to be in working order. She finished off by sealing the torn skin, leaving a splotch of shiny new skin, red as a sunburn, where minutes before had been a grievous injury.

“Will she be alright?” Ilorien asked, his voice sounding strangled. She glanced at him – he looked half-wild with anger and worry, and the purple half-moons under his eyes betrayed his state of exhaustion. She was sure she hardly looked any better.

“Yes,” was her weary answer. “She may have issues using her right arm for a bit, but she’ll live.” She wiped her brow, where her sweat had made dirt and dust cling to her skin. For just a heartbeat, she let herself daydream about a bath in a cool stream, the soothing water washing away every speck of filth and stress she’d accumulated over the past several days. Or even better, one of the hot steaming baths that she’d gotten used to at Skyhold, even with some of the luxurious scented oils that Josephine had given her as a gift. Then, she hauled herself back into the present matter. “We need to get out of here. When the chevalier captain wakes up, he’s not going to be happy with us.”

“Let me out, and I’ll carry Scout Harding,” Sutherland offered. Even as Delilah moved to release him, being satisfied that Harding would be alright, Ilorien shot him a fierce, protective glare.

Sutherland didn’t seem offended by Ilorien’s silent accusation. He lifted his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I’ve been resting for the last couple hours,” he explained quietly. “I have the strength and energy to carry her. No offense, but you both look like you’re about to drop dead of exhaustion.”

“He’s right,” Delilah said softly, placating. With a _snap_ , hoarfrost broke open Sutherland’s cell, and he walked over and knelt beside Harding. With no discernable effort, he lifted her small, still form and cradled her against his chest.

“Keep her safe,” Ilorien said, half pleading and half ordering in a strained voice. Sutherland just nodded.

“Come on, we have to go,” Delilah urged. “It’s going to be dawn soon. The entire city will take notice if we leave like this when people are about.”

“How on earth do you suggest we slip out of one of the most heavily fortified buildings in Halamshiral?” Sutherland pressed.

“There must be a servant’s entrance we can use,” she mused. “Do you remember seeing one?”

“No, but I remember that the kitchens weren’t too far from here. There’s bound to be a servant’s exit from there.”

Delilah thought hard for a moment, weighing her options. “Ilorien, give me my coat back,” she said suddenly. “I might have an idea of how to get us out of this mess.”

He didn’t argue, handing back the long leather garment. In turn, she tucked it tightly around Harding’s prone form, hiding the torn and bloody leathers as well as a portion of her still-pallid face.

“Let’s go,” the Inquisitor said, and they hurried towards the kitchen.


	15. Trial

The scant handful of servants who were already awake so early in the morning gasped when Delilah, Ilorien, and Sutherland burst into the kitchen. They looked even more afraid and upset at the sight of Harding being carried unconscious in Sutherland’s arms. Delilah pulled out her best chagrined look and spread her hands in appeal, silently begging whatever deity that might be listening that they looked innocent – or at least, guilty of nothing more than partying too hard.

“My friend here got really drunk last night,” she said apologetically, gesturing at Harding. “She said some embarrassing things to the chevalier captain and I was hoping to leave without causing the Inquisition any more embarrassment.” There was no way these servants didn’t know who they were by this point, gossip traveled faster than lightning strikes. “Please, could you show us the servant’s exit? We won’t cause you any more trouble, I swear it.”

After a heartbeat, the woman who appeared to be the head cook seemed to shake herself. “Oui,” she said in a thick Orlesian accent. “This way.”

She led them through a plain doorway and down a narrow corridor, before she reached a sturdier door that led outside. “Here,” she said, gesturing. She nodded at Harding’s still form. “Feel better,” she added, though of course the dwarf did not respond.

“Merci,” Delilah murmured, and they slipped through the door, into the chilly pre-dawn air.

And directly into the waiting hands of no less than six fully armored chevaliers.

“I was told to guard this door in case you tried to escape from the kitchens and servant’s quarters to avoid scrutiny,” said the man who appeared to be in charge of the group. Just like the rest, he wore a mask that obscured most of his features, this one bronze and shaped to resemble an owl. To his men, he barked, “Chain them and take them to the main prison to await judgement.”

Delilah sat on a short stool, head in her hands. In the cell to her right, Sutherland sat cross-legged on the floor, fingers steepled before him, eyes closed. When she’d asked what he was doing, he explained that he was meditating, a way of centering and disciplining the mind and calming excess emotions. He explained he’d learned the activity from a woman named T’Pol in some distant village Sutherland had traveled to during one of his missions for the Inquisition. On Delilah’s other side, Ilorien paced back and forth, occasionally rubbing his hands agitatedly over his face. His low ponytail had come loose, and his long raven-black hair swayed as he walked.

Harding had not been placed in a cell.

To the credit of the chevaliers who had captured them, they’d taken one look at the blood coating Harding’s clothes and taken her immediately to a licensed healer. It had been well three hours since, with no word of anything going on in the outside world, though by this point it should be well past sunrise. Thankfully, even though all of their packs and weapons had been confiscated, someone had brought in trays of food for them to eat. The fare was simple, especially by Orlesian standards – just a cut of venison and a slice of bread – but that with the cup of water as well was more than satisfying enough.

When the door to the jail finally opened, Delilah’s neck popped as she looked up. Four guards marched in, as well as the lead chevalier who’d captured them. “You’re being taken to the courthouse to be judged,” he explained as each of them had their hands bound. “You ought to feel honored that our justice system was sped up just for you. Ordinarily it might be weeks or more before a trial is set, but we expedited the process due to your stature within the Inquisition, as well as in acknowledgement of your past assistance to Orlais.”

“How kind,” Delilah replied, no trace of sarcasm to be found for a change. She was too tired for it right now.

The courthouse adjacent to the jail was perhaps slightly less lavish than, say, the Winter Palace itself, but it was still surrounded by soaring marble pillars and statues, and inside gold filigree decorated many surfaces. As they walked, Delilah held her head high and her back ramrod straight, just as Vivienne had instructed her once upon a time when they’d all visited Halamshiral for the first time. She, Ilorien, and Sutherland ignored the stares and murmurs of the Orlesians going about their business in the building as they were led to the courtroom.

They emerged at the top of a vaguely circular theater-like room. Tiered seating filled three-quarters of the room, already filled with quietly chatting people who turned to stare as they entered. Splitting the room in two was a walkway, leading from their entrance all the way down to two tables with chairs, which were set before an open space that separated the stand where the judge would sit.

The three of them were led down the walkway and sat at one of the tables facing the judge’s stand. In the one extra chair at the table, next to Delilah, an unassuming-looking man sat. Like most Orlesians he too wore a mask, though it was significantly plainer than other masks she’d seen, as were his dark robes. With fumbling fingers, he pulled out of a bag a pad of paper, a sealed inkwell, and a plain white quill, and set it all on the table before him.

“I’m Antonin-Pierre Durand,” he introduced himself hastily. He held out a hand for a handshake, but seemed to think the better of it at the sight of Delilah’s still-bound hands. “I’ll be representing your case.”

“They gave us a lawyer?” Delilah said, raising an eyebrow in surprise. “I wasn’t aware the Orlesian law allowed for such a thing.”

“Normally it doesn’t, or at least it doesn’t make it _required_ , but yours is an unusual case,” he admitted. He wiped at the sweat that had accumulated on his upper lip, under his mask. “I can’t believe they chose _me_ to be assigned to your case.”

“How many cases have you won?” Sutherland said in a low voice. Behind them, the clacking of heeled boots on marble rang out, and none other than Rémi-Matthieu himself approached, as well as a man who appeared to be the guard Ilorien had knocked unconscious before they descended into the basement. The captain gave them an impressively disdainful sneer, before he sat at the other table across the walkway from them. Another man joined them, unpacking ink and paper just like Antonin-Pierre had done.

“Eighteen,” Delilah’s lawyer replied.

“Out of how many?”

They were interrupted by the echoing clack of the guards banging the ends of their spears upon the marble, drawing the attention of everybody in the room. “Everybody rise for Judge Simone Lemoine!” one of them cried.

Everybody stood, including Rémi-Matthieu and his companions. Antonin-Pierre motioned for her and her companions to do the same as a door she hadn’t noticed behind the judge’s stand opened and a tall, imposing woman stepped into the room. She was clothed in robes of deep emerald. Her graying hair had been pulled back in a severe bun, and an impressive pointed black hat sat perched upon her head, with a few sleek and shiny black feathers sticking out of the brim’s band. Her face was lined and unsmiling as she passed her imperious gaze over the people in attendance, lingering upon Delilah and Rémi-Matthieu, before she finally sat.

In Delilah’s opinion, she didn’t look like a woman to be crossed.

“You may be seated,” Judge Lemoine said, gesturing to everybody else. There were a few moments of scuffling and murmuring as everybody resituated themselves, and then an expectant silence fell upon the room.

Delilah, for one, had no idea what to expect and was consequently incredibly anxious. For once, she was to be on the receiving end of an official judgement. She found she didn’t much care for receiving it any more than she cared for dispensing it.

Judge Lemoine examined whatever reports were on the desk before her for a moment before she spoke.

“Inquisitor Delilah Lavellan,” she said at length, seeming to taste the syllables carefully before speaking them. “What an unusual situation. Are you aware of the charges levied against you by Ser Rémi-Matthieu Droit de Val Firmin?”

At Antonin-Pierre’s urging, she stood, inclining her head respectfully. “I have some idea, but I don’t know the specifics,” she said, keeping her voice loud and clear enough for everybody to hear.

The judge examined a sheet of paper again. “You have been accused of conspiracy, breaking and entering, assault upon three chevaliers of the Halamshiral battalion, the murder of one of the same, as well as the theft of multiple items of historical value discovered upon Orlesian soil - or beneath, as the case may be – as well as breaking two of your associates out of prison. How do you find these charges?”

“There are extenuating circumstances-”

Judge Lemoine’s dark eyes flashed in annoyance. “How do you plead?” she said, every word as weighted with authority and power as a lightning strike.

Antonin-Pierre jerked at her sleeve, and she leaned over to hear his whisper: “Admit to nothing for now. If you plead guilty, you’ll be sentenced immediately. Pleading innocent will force them to examine all of the evidence.”

Delilah straightened, and met the judge’s gaze once more. “I plead innocent.”

Murmuring filled the room, cut by Rémi-Matthieu’s snort of disdain. “And my horse has eight limbs,” he sneered.

The judge tapped her gavel on the desk, twice, and immediately the room quieted. Even Rémi-Matthieu fell silent at the reprimand. “Prosecutor, you may present your case.”

The chevaliers’ lawyer stood, bowing deeply to the judge. “Thank you, your grace,” he said graciously. “I’d like to begin by calling a witness to the stand, monsieur Andouin.”

The guard in question stood. In the light of day, Delilah could see the deep purple bruise that spanned his forehead where Ilorien had struck him. She suspected he’d been told to leave his mask off specifically so that the bruise would be visible to everyone.

Sure enough, when he sat on a stool beside the judge’s stand, facing the room, shocked murmurs filled the audience. The judge allowed it for a couple of seconds before silencing them with a tap of her gavel. “Prosecutor, you may begin your questioning.”

The chevalier’s lawyer approached the guard, idly playing with his thin gray beard. “How long have you been stationed as a guard for the chevalier training complex?”

“Almost two years, monsieur.”

“Where were you stationed beforehand?”

“In the Winter Palace.”

“Do you like it there, with the chevaliers? Is it rewarding work?”

“I do,” Andouin answered. “Working with so many highly-trained warriors, it gives me a sense of security. It helps that I’m allowed to observe and occasionally train with the chevaliers during my off-duty hours, so some of the reward is learning to be a better fighter, should the need arise.”

“’Should the need arise’,” the lawyer repeated, glancing at Delilah and her companions. She met his eyes impassively. “As I understand it, the pay for a guard stationed in the Winter Palace is quite substantial, more so than a simple guard posting at a training complex.” the lawyer mused aloud. “Would you describe for the court your reasons for leaving such a lucrative job?”

Andouin glanced at Delilah, and his face was a mix of emotion – guilt and fear the most prevalent. “I was on duty the night of the Empress’s masquerade and peace talks. In the fighting behind closed doors, I was ambushed and injured. After I’d healed, I wanted a station with less stress and pressure, and I was granted a posting with the chevaliers.”

“You were injured the night that the Inquisition snuck soldiers into the Winter Palace?” the lawyer pressed.

“Objection!” Delilah’s lawyer stood, glaring at the chevalier’s lawyer. Sitting so close to the man, Delilah could see the tremble in his hands as he laid them upon their table. “You’re leading the witness.”

The judge tapped her gavel again. “Overruled. You may continue.”

The chevalier’s lawyer bowed slightly. “Thank you, your grace.” Turning back to the guard, he continued. “You yourself said that you were injured in the fighting started by the Inquisition’s soldiers that illegally infiltrated the palace under the guise of Empress Celene’s peace talks. And here last night, you find yourself again attacked and injured at the hands of one of the Inquisition. Tell me, are you alright? Was your injury severe?” he asked, his soft voice filled with concern Delilah was sure was faked.

“I have a headache that hurts like hell, and an ugly bruise, but otherwise I seem to be alright,” the guard replied, lightly touching the bruise in question with his fingertips and wincing.

“Considering the unfortunate chevalier that our own Captain Rémi-Matthieu was able to recover from the underground chambers that have been discovered, I’m certain your family is grateful to know you’ve survived another harrowing interaction with the Inquisition’s spies, as am I.” The lawyer turned to face the audience and gave a short bow, then turned back to face the judge and gave a deeper bow. “I have no more questions, your grace,” he said respectfully. “Barrister Durand may question the witness now, with your leave.”

The judge nodded sagely, then gestured at Antonin-Pierre with her gavel. “You may question the witness.”

Delilah’s lawyer stood, nervously straightening his robes, and strode into the center of the room as the chevalier’s lawyer sat, looking pleased with himself. “Thank you, your grace,” he said. “Monsieur Andouin, I’m pleased to see you are up and about.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you please describe for the court your condition when you were found unconscious?” Antonin-Pierre began.

Andouin blinked. “I was unconscious, as you say.”

“Ah, no. My apologies. I mean, where were you found? Had you been bound and tortured, or left to rot? Anything like that.”

“Oh, no,” the guard answered, looking surprised. “I woke up in the hospital, but the man who’d found me said I was just left in a closet with this bruise. I hadn’t been tied up, or hurt further. My spear was even put in there with me, and the door had been left unlocked.”

“So aside from knocking you unconscious and moving you to a more inconspicuous location, would you say they’d largely left you alone?” the lawyer pressed.

“It would appear that way.”

“It seems to me like a blessing,” Antonin-Pierre remarked. Then, changing the subject, he said, “You’ve told us you were injured two years ago in the Winter Palace. Would you please describe for us exactly how it happened, if it’s not too painful to recollect?”

The guard looked thoughtful for a moment, evidently thinking back. Delilah thought back to her own memories of the evening – a flattering dress cut to make her a pretty distraction for the nobility, having to find too many damn halla statues, laughing and flirting and chatting with dignitaries whose names she couldn’t be bothered to remember…finding the entire elven staff slaughtered in the servant’s quarters, the tang of blood sharp in her sensitive nose. Grappling with a harlequin assassin in the dark, before finally sliding their own dagger into their narrow chest.

“I was stationed in the royal wing during the masquerade,” Andouin said slowly. “It had been sealed off for the duration of the talks to prevent guests from wandering where they shouldn’t have. At some point, the torches suddenly snuffed out, and I was stabbed.”

“Where were you stabbed?”

“In the side, here.” The guard twisted and lifted his shirt a bit – there, on his waist, was a slim silvery scar, perhaps an inch and a half long, just under where his ribs ended. “Thankfully it didn’t hit anything vital.”

“Thankfully indeed. What, if anything, do you remember about your attacker?” Antonin-Pierre probed. The guard shook his head.

“No, like I said, the torches were snuffed out.” He squinted at the lawyer, then glanced at the judge. “I apologize, but I don’t see what this has to do with last night.”

Judge Lemoine inclined her chin. “Please continue to answer the questions.”

“Yes, your grace.”

“To your knowledge, were any other palace guards injured in the fighting that night?” Antonin-Pierre asked.

“I had heard that my friend Beauchamp received a broken arm when one of the Tevinter assassins tried to ambush him, but he was otherwise unhurt.”

“Did your friend ever say if this assassin tried to incapacitate him _before_ trying to kill him, or did the Tevinter go straight for the kill?”

“He said one minute everything was fine, the next the assassin jumped out of the shadows and tried to take his head off,” Andouin explained, looking a little ill at the memory.

The chevaliers’ lawyer stood. “Objection,” he called. “This line of questioning is irrelevant to the case and is relying on secondhand, years-old testimony.”

“I am inclined to agree, though I will remind the prosecutor that he is the one who began this line of questioning,” the judge answered, fixing Antonin-Pierre under her stern stare. “Make your point, barrister.”

He bowed deeply. “Yes, your grace. I would submit to the court that this man, when he was stationed at the Winter Palace two years ago, was attacked, not by the Inquisition agents as my esteemed colleague appears to have implied, but by the Tevinter assassins who had come for Empress Celene’s life – the Empress, who I and any other Orlesian would freely point out, owes her life to this woman,” he said, gesturing to Delilah, who still sat silently at the table. For such a nervous man, she was impressed at how he seemed to be handling the pressure. Judge Lemoine’s stern gaze reminded her of Clan Lavellan’s Keeper when she’d discovered the expansive vallaslin Delilah had inked over most of her body, stealing several vials of enchanted vallaslin ink in the process. “This relates to the current case of charges levied against my client by means of one thing: my client and her companions irrefutably _did_ attack this man last night, but I would point out the obvious. He is alive, he is remarkably healthy. When he was discovered by the guard who was to relieve him of his post, he had been placed in a nearby closet – unbound, door unlocked. His weapon had even been left at his side. This doesn’t strike me as a ruthless Inquisition who strikes down any who stand in its path, in the way that too many people seem eager to re-demonize its institution. Conversely, when he was attacked in the Winter Palace, he was left for dead. These two actions do not strike me as the actions of the same institution, whom, to my observation, has been remarkably consistent about its methods and goals since its conception three years ago, following the death of our revered Divine Justinia.” The man bowed his head solemnly, and for a moment was silent, as if honoring her death privately.

Several seconds passed, but slowly the room was filled with the murmurs of the audience discussing their thoughts on this speech and the evidence given so far. To Delilah’s surprise, most of the murmurs seemed positive – or at least, not overly condemning.


	16. Opening

The judge let the muttering go on for five seconds before she tapped her gavel. “An interesting theory, barrister,” she said, her piercing gaze fixed on Delilah’s lawyer. “Yet I must point out it has little influence on the matter at hand. The fact of the charges remain – instead of refuting them, you appear to have strengthened them.”

“The circumstances behind an assault do nothing to change the fact that an assault was committed,” the chevalier’s lawyer drawled. “The same goes for the murder charge, incidentally.”

“The circumstances can change everything, as you well know,” Delilah’s lawyer shot back. “If a shop was robbed and the thief threatened the shopkeeper’s life, and the shopkeeper killed the thief in self-defense, would you throw the shopkeeper in jail for murder? Or would you acknowledge the extenuating circumstances?”

“Enough,” the judge spoke. “This is a courtroom, not a debate hall. Barrister, call forth a witness, or cede the floor to the prosecutor.”

Antonin-Pierre bowed. “I call to the witness stand Ser Girard, who was among the company of chevaliers who accompanied Ser Rémi-Matthieu when he tracked down Inquisitor Lavellan and her companions last night,” he said. From the audience, the chevalier in question rose and approached the witness’ seat. “Ser Girard, would you please recount for us what happened last night, from your point of view?” he asked.

“The captain came into the barracks late last night and rounded a few of us up, saying that the complex had been broken into and that he needed backup,” Girard narrated. “He led us down into the basement where we found Sutherland and the dwarf waiting beside a hole in the wall that hadn’t been there before, as far as I know.”

“Are you referring to Lieutenant Sutherland sitting here before you?” Antonin-Pierre asked, gesturing to the warrior. The chevalier nodded. “I understand he spent some time on the training grounds over the past few days. Did you interact with him during that time?”

“I might have chatted with him once or twice, but never anything in-depth,” was Girard’s reply.

“Prior to last night’s events, what was your overall impression of the lieutenant?”

“He seemed to be an honest sort,” the chevalier said slowly. “Hard working, willing to listen to instruction and criticism. I sparred with him once. I haven’t had a challenge like that from a non-trained chevalier in a long time.”

“A compliment upon Commander Cullen’s training, no doubt,” Antonin-Pierre replied. “Let’s return to your arrival in the basement under the complex. You said you arrived to find Sutherland and a ‘dwarf woman’. This woman would be the Inquisition’s Scout Lace Harding, is that correct?”

The chevalier’s face turned pink with embarrassment. “I don’t know her name,” he admitted. “She had Inquisition armor and red hair, and carried a bow.”

“Does this match the description of Scout Harding in your reports, your grace?” Antonin-Pierre said, turning to face the judge. She glanced at a report, then nodded in agreement. “I would note for the court that Scout Harding is not in attendance of this trial, a trial whose consequences will affect her as well. Ser Girard, do you have an explanation for her absence?”

“She…when we arrived down in the basement, Captain Rémi-Matthieu asked where the Inquisitor had gone. Scout Harding said they had to leave suddenly but that Inquisitor Lavellan wanted to thank him for his hospitality before they left, but got separated on the way to his office. The captain offered to search for her, and when Scout Harding refused, he…he ordered me to shoot her with a crossbow.”

Delilah clenched her fists on her lap underneath the table, but schooled her face into a cool mask of polite indifference just as she’d been taught. She’d never take an Orlesian mask that would cover her vallaslin, but she’d cultivated a mask of her own all the same.

“Do you think the order was a fair one?” Antonin-Pierre said carefully.

“Objection!” the chevaliers’ laywer interrupted, turning an accusatory glare at the barrister. “You’re leading the witness.”

“Overruled,” judge Lemoine intoned.

Antonin-Pierre inclined his head in gratitude.

The chevalier, however, seemed to agree with the prosecutor. “Respectfully, it doesn’t matter if an order is fair or not,” he said hesitantly. “It’s an order. I obey orders. Our entire societal infrastructure collapses if we ignore that.”

“I understand,” Delilah’s lawyer said softly. “Merely the fact that you’ve surpassed training and gained the title of chevalier tells us all that you’re a man of honor and dignity, and you – like you said – carry out your orders without question and to the best of your ability to do so.”

“I am loyal to my country and to my kinsman, whether they are my superior officers or my peers,” was the reply.

“Naturally so. Would you agree, then, that by your own definition of how you’re honor-bound to follow your orders, any actions committed by a man under orders falls, not on his own hands, but on the hands of the one who gave the orders?” Antonin-Pierre probed.

The chevaliers’ lawyer leapt to his feet. “Objection!” he cried. “Your grace I beg you, this sad excuse for a lawyer happily bends the sacred laws that uphold our righteous justice system. Leading the witness, again and again!”

“Silence, prosecutor,” judge Lemoine barked, tapping her gavel once. “You have made your point, do not overstep your bounds.” To Antonin-Pierre, she said, “The prosecutor is right. You have been warned; you must refrain from doing so again, or I will have you removed and replaced by a barrister who is able to follow the rules we’ve observed for centuries in this courthouse.”

He bowed deeply. “Of course, your grace. My sincerest apologies. May I be permitted to continue with my questions?”

“You may.”

He turned to face Girard once more. “Back to when you shot Scout Harding, could you explain for us Captain Rémi-Matthieu’s reasoning for giving that order?”

The chevalier looked a little nervous at this. “I believe he said something about ‘obstruction of an investigation’.”

“Where was Scout Harding struck by the bolt?”

“Uh, I believe on her chest,” he answered. He pointed at a spot on his own chest, above his right pectoral, just under his collarbone. “About here.”

“And once this…obstruction, as she’s been called…was removed, and the captain was able to resume his investigation, was Scout Harding given medical attention?” Antonin-Pierre probed.

“Not to my knowledge, no.”

“Where were Scout Harding and Lieutenant Sutherland taken?”

“Ser Rémi-Matthieu ordered us to take them to the complex’s jail cells,” Girard explained. “He said that as soon as he got back from finding the Inquisitor, he’d sort everything out.”

“And how long was it after that before captain Rémi-Matthieu returned?”

“Um, I believe it was close to two and a half or three hours,” he answered.

Fire kindled in Delilah’s veins at the cool and impersonal description of Harding’s misery. To her far right, Sutherland sat as still as the marble statues outside, his stare fixed with cold fury upon the chevalier. Between them, Ilorien fidgeted in his seat, though he seemed likewise livid at the recounting.

Antonin-Pierre paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back, a grim look on his face. “Are you telling me that Scout Harding laid in a cell for hours, grievously injured, with nobody to so much as staunch the bleeding?” he exclaimed.

The chevalier hung his head. “It shames me to say it’s so.”

“Did anything else happen to Scout Harding last night?” Antonin-Pierre asked softly. Delilah’s eyes snapped up to the chevalier, and beside her she felt Ilorien go rigid with fury at the suggestion.

Girard hesitated. “I…”

“Remember, you’re not on trial here,” the barrister reminded him, almost too quietly for Delilah to hear. The chevalier nodded.

“The captain had her tortured,” he said clearly. Horrified gasps echoed throughout the room; if Delilah hadn’t been drugged with magebane, she felt her own rage would burn through the bindings around her wrists, as well as the whole of the courtroom itself. “He ordered one of us to tap our finger upon the bolt in her chest, or to press on the wound itself, when she didn’t tell the captain what he wanted to hear.”

“A grave charge,” Antonin-Pierre said solemnly. “If I recall, the code regarding treatment of prisoners, regardless of the situation, forbids torture or the withholding of medical attention by means of punishment or obtaining information. Your grace, do you know this to be true?”

“The code is written as you say,” Lemoine answered.

The barrister nodded in acknowledgement. “Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed guests, I propose that, regardless of Inquisitor Lavellan’s intentions when she entered the chevalier training grounds last night, it does not warrant the assault, torture, and withholding of medical attention at nearly the cost of Scout Lace Harding’s life,” he said clearly, turning to address the audience. “I ask you, in your own hearts, to remember Inquisitor Lavellan’s actions over the past three years – when the Inquisition was first born, she and her companions were met with scorn and ridicule, yet carried themselves with dignity and restraint admirable to any who have participated in the Great Game. She rescued the Gray Wardens from Corypheus’ grasp, prevented an army of demons from invading our beautiful country, thwarted an assassination attempt on our own Empress Celene, long may she reign…and finally rid Thedas from Corypheus’ threat once and for all. I ask, in the light of her struggles and accomplishments in the name of peace in Thedas, that we acknowledge that when we next consider the Inquisitor’s reasoning for being in the training complex so late at night. I have no more questions for the witness.”


	17. Rebuttal

Following Antonin-Pierre’s passionate speech, judge Lemoine called for an hour recess. Delilah, Ilorien, and Sutherland were taken to a smallish room lined with benches where they were allowed to eat a light lunch. Delilah was again made to take a dose of magebane, to prevent ‘any unintentional displays,’ the guard explained with a grimace. She didn’t argue, but nodded and accepted the drug quietly for the sake of not causing a scene.

As soon as the servant had left after also dropping off a pitcher of water and some small sandwiches, Ilorien confronted the lawyer. “Where is Scout Harding?” he demanded, speaking for the first time that day. “Is she alright?”

“She’s in the hospital,” Antonin-Pierre said soothingly. “I visited her; she’s awake and going to recover. She’s a little lightheaded from blood loss and won’t be able to use her arm for a while, but she should be just fine. The doctor said you did a fine job of healing her yourself, though not everything was completely healed,” he added, nodding at Delilah.

“I’m not the most talented healer we have,” she admitted. “But I’m glad to hear that.” Delilah snagged one of the small sandwiches from the plate and took a bite, abruptly aware of how ravenous she was. How long had it been since she’d eaten last – twelve, fifteen hours? “You seem better at this than I’d expected,” she mumbled to Antonin-Pierre around a bite of chicken. “At this rate, they might just let us go.”

He flushed pink at the praise. “Your confidence is inspiring, but I’m afraid the trial is only half through,” he explained. “Now it will be monsieur Levasseur’s turn.”

“Levasseur?”

“Captain Rémi-Matthieu’s lawyer. I’ve worked both with and against him before; when he gets going in his groove, he’s one of the best lawyers I’ve ever seen. Don’t be fooled – you’re not in a good position here.”

“Great.”

When they finally returned to the courtroom, and everyone had taken their seats once more, the judge asked Levasseur if he wanted to question Ser Girard. The prosecutor refused, instead giving a feline smile. “I have my own witness I want to come to the stand. Ser Rémi-Matthieu Droit de Val Firmin, please rise and take the witness’ stand.”

The captain rose to his feet and approached the seat, casting a baleful glance at Delilah and her companions as he did so. She leveled her best cold stare back at him.

“Captain, if you please, when a foreign dignitary comes to visit the city, whose job is it go greet them and ensure they have a place to stay, and that all of their needs are met?” Levasseur began.

“That would be the city steward,” Rémi-Matthieu answered.

“Would you say they interfered with your duties as the captain of our city’s battalion of chevaliers?”

“Yes, a fair amount,” the captain said blandly.

Delilah swore silently, fighting the urge to glare at the man. Sutherland seemed to share her thoughts. “He said it wasn’t ever a problem,” he muttered under her breath. Delilah didn’t take her eyes off the proceedings, but gave a faint shake of the head.

“Would you explain why you took on these duties when they interfered with your own duties, as important as they are?” Levasseur continued, seemingly oblivious to the Fereldan’s comment.

“I hadn’t had an opportunity to meet the Inquisitor the last time she came to our beautiful city. You hear rumors and secondhand opinion, of course, but I wanted to personally see what all the fuss was about.” He fiddled with the ends of his mustache. “And, I happened to be nearby when she arrived. It was the decent thing to do.”

“Could you recount for the court the things you personally set up for the Inquisitor and her companions, on your own time and outside of your regular duties at the training complex?”

“Inquisitor Lavellan and Scout Harding wanted to visit our gardens, and Lieutenant Sutherland wanted to observe chevalier training,” the captain explained, picking at a fleck of dirt under his nails. “Naturally, I obliged. Inquisitor Lavellan also asked to visit our library, and Scout Harding wanted to visit the cartographer. I also oversaw them receiving the best meals possible, a few of which I personally hosted.”

“A very generous use of your time,” the chevalier’s lawyer remarked. “What would you say was your impression of the Inquisition, prior to discovering them inside the chevalier training complex?”

“I believed the organization as a whole to be meddlesome, but well-intentioned at least. As the court has been reminded, our country owes our Empress’s life to the Inquisition, as well as the fact we’ve _not_ been invaded by an army of demons. As for the Inquisitor herself…” Rémi-Matthieu shrugged, and finally deigned to glance in her direction. “A little introverted, perhaps, but polite enough and moderately well-instructed in the Game.”

Delilah fought the urge to snort, the memory of him hurling slurs at her still ringing fresh in her ears.

“Would you say you trusted Inquisitor Lavellan and her companions?”

“I don’t believe I’d go so far as to say I _trusted_ them, but I never believed they’d break into my office building, assault my chevaliers and I, and murder one of them.” Rémi-Matthieu leaned forward, staring hard at Delilah. “Are you going to tell his family yourself? Or will you lie to slip out of that too?”

The judge tapped her gavel on the stand. “Stay focused on the issue at hand, captain.”

The captain sat back in his chair, once more refusing to look at her. “My apologies, your grace.”

“Please describe for the court what happened when you discovered Inquisitor Lavellan and her companions within the building.”

“I was on my nightly rounds when I discovered that a guard had gone missing from his post. A short search discovered he’d been assaulted and dumped in a nearby closet. Naturally, this aroused suspicions, so I gathered several chevaliers who were awake for the evening watch. We made our way through that wing, searching for anything amiss, when we discovered Scout Harding and Lieutenant Sutherland in one of the basements. Evidently Inquisitor Lavellan and her companions had demolished part of the wall and created a tunnel of some kind. Though the answer was obvious, when we asked to where Lavellan and her elven companion had disappeared, the scout and the lieutenant became belligerent and refused to answer. Scout Harding attempted to prevent us from investigating the tunnel, and I’m afraid she became injured in the scuffle.”

“That’s a bloody lie!” Sutherland cried, rising from his seat. The judge slapped the gavel down on her stand once more.

“Be silent, or you will be removed from the courtroom,” she barked. The warrior slowly sat back down, still seething.

“What happened after that?” the chevalier’s lawyer pressed.

“The scout and the lieutenant were removed from the basement, after the lieutenant decided to explain that the Inquisitor had come here on some far-fetched treasure hunt. Ser Jouret and I descended into the tunnel after the Inquisitor and her companion. We found a short series of round chambers, with the Inquisitor and her companion in the second or third one. We confronted them, and demanded they explain themselves and show us this supposed treasure they were searching for.” Rémi-Matthieu dragged a hand down his face, as if haunted by the memory. “They attacked us and killed Ser Jouret in cold blood. I had to find someone to help me retrieve his body. I’m grateful the chevaliers on guard around the building were able to capture these murderers and help bring them to justice.”

Delilah snorted, but otherwise kept quiet.

“So you took time from your busy schedule to welcome the Inquisition into your city, spent valuable time away from your own duties to ensure that all of their needs were met and then some,” Levasseur said, allowing incredulity tinge his voice, “and after all of this, your generosity is rewarded by breaking and entering, assault, obstruction of an investigation, theft, murder, conspiracy…the list goes on. This is betrayal of the gravest kind. Your grace, I beg you to rightfully convict this liar and thief of every charge on your reports. Make an example out of her, so that none ever cross Orlais like this again.”

“Do you have any further questions for the witness?” judge Lemoine asked.

“None, your grace.”

“Barrister, your witness. Have you any questions?”

Antonin-Pierre stood again, and bowed. “Thank you, your grace. I do have questions.”

He approached Rémi-Matthieu, looking thoughtful. “Captain, your testimony is remarkably different from Ser Girard’s testimony especially concerning how Scout Harding became injured and what followed. What have you to say about having tortured Scout Harding following shooting her with little provocation?”

“I say I am not the one on trial,” Rémi-Matthieu said smoothly. “But I deny that I _tortured_ Scout Harding. I pressed her for information as was necessary by my investigation at the time.”

Antonin-Pierre hummed thoughtfully, even as the waves of fury rolling off Ilorien and Sutherland reached nearly-palpable levels. “Describe for the court what transpired after you confronted Inquisitor Lavellan within the chambers you mentioned.”

“After they attacked us?”

“As you say.”

Rémi-Matthieu gave an impressive sneer. “I woke up from being knocked unconscious to find my trusted colleague dead, murdered in cold blood.”

“Did you follow them for revenge?” Antonin-Pierre asked.

“No, a barrier prevented me from following them deeper underground. I tried to carry Ser Jouret back to the surface, but I was too weak. I made my way back alone, and asked one of the chevalier’s stationed there to help me. They made me go to the medical wing to recover from my injuries, while some of my other men went to retrieve Ser Jouret’s body.”

“So you didn’t go deeper down the passageway to try and see what this ‘treasure’ is that you’ve mentioned?”

Rémi-Matthieu’s lip curled. “No.”

“Did you send down soldiers to attempt to find this treasure?” Antonin-Pierre pressed.

“Naturally.”

“And what did they find?”

There was a pregnant heartbeat as everyone in the room seemed to hold their breath. Then…

“Nothing.”

Antonin-Pierre made a show of raising a surprised eyebrow, glancing back to briefly meet Delilah’s eye. “Nothing?”

“The final room was empty.”

“So this treasure the Inquisitor was chasing was, what, a fairy tale? A wild goose chase?”

“Evidently.” Rémi-Matthieu’s displeasure was nearly palpable at the turn the questions had taken.

“So the alleged assaults on both sides, the unfortunate death of Ser Jouret, was all for nothing.” Delilah’s lawyer hummed. “Ladies, gentlemen, and esteemed guests, I would propose that this entire venture was a misunderstanding of grand proportions, and an unfortunate one at that. The charges, however valid they may or may not be, are all based upon actions taken upon misinformation and unfortunate circumstances. I have no more questions for the witness.”

The judge gave a single tap of her gavel on her stand. “Captain, you may return to your seat,” she said to Rémi-Matthieu, who stood and resumed his seat sat next to his own lawyer. “Barrister, you may call one last witness to the stand if you so choose.”

Delilah’s lawyer bowed to the judge. “Your grace, I would call Inquisitor Delilah Lavellan to the stand.”

Murmurs erupted throughout the audience, and the people seated in the raised seats craned their neck to peer at her as she rose, made her way to the witness stand, and perched anxiously on the seat. Breathe in through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through the mouth, she reminded herself. No matter how much she repeated those words to herself, the sight of at least a couple-hundred Orlesians pinning her with their stares only heightened her anxiety – especially since she knew they didn’t truly care if she was declared innocent or not, they just wanted to be there to see when her blood filled the proverbial water.

“Inquisitor Lavellan, it’s become clear to the court that, whatever your originally voiced reasons for visiting Halamshiral, you were indeed seeking something buried deep beneath the city,” Antonin-Pierre began. He paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “In your own words, please describe what you were seeking.”

“I didn’t lie when I said we needed to rest and resupply,” she said, voice a little rough from disuse. She cleared her throat. “My companion there, Ilorien, had told me a story that he’d heard, that there was a treasure of some kind hidden beneath the city, placed there long ago by the elves who lived here before Orlais conquered Halamshiral. I agreed to help him find it, since such a treasure would be immeasurably valuable to the elven peoples. While he searched the city for any clues to its whereabouts, my companions and I decided to enjoy the many benefits the city has to offer; beautiful gardens, extensive libraries, endless varieties of food. I apologize if we seemed insincere in your enjoyment of your hospitality, captain,” she added, addressing Rémi-Matthieu for the first time. “We meant every word when we said how much we enjoyed everything.”

The captain gave a snort of disbelief, interrupted by a tap of the judge’s gavel. “Focus,” Lemoine reminded her sternly.

“Would you describe for us what happened after you decided the entrance must lie beneath the chevalier training complex?” Antonin-Pierre asked.

“We waited until the early hours of the morning, so as to not cause a ruckus, and entered through a servant’s entrance. We encountered one guard, Ser Andouin, and we went through great pains to make sure that he wasn’t seriously injured. We even made sure he’d be able to get out of the closet we left him in, so that if it took too long to find him, he wouldn’t be stuck there unnecessarily,” Delilah added.

“A thoughtful gesture. Please continue.”

“We found the entrance to the hidden passageway, revealed by veilfire.”

“Explain for the court what ‘veilfire’ is,” judge Lemoine interrupted.

“It’s a kind of magical fire that feeds from the energy of the Veil, rather than on kindling or oil,” Delilah explained. “The flame burns blue-green, so it’s very distinctive. It can be used to reveal hidden runes on most old elven structures – at least, those left standing.”

“Does this correlate with what you’ve heard?” the judge said, addressing Rémi-Matthieu’s lawyer. The man nodded.

“It’s been more or less frequently observed,” Levasseur said, “though there’s been no extensive study on the matter. Veilfire is too rare to find or create to make any real headway as far as study goes.”

“Continue with your testimony,” judge Lemoine said, gesturing to Delilah. She inclined her head in acknowledgement.

“Ilorien and I made our way down into the passageway and found a series of puzzles relating to the elven pantheon of gods. We’d solved about half of them when captain Rémi-Matthieu and Ser Jouret appeared and assaulted us.”

“You say _they_ assaulted _you_?” Delilah’s lawyer said, being sure to say the words clearly enough for the entire room to hear.

She sat up straighter, aware of every eye in the room being trained on her. “Yes,” she said clearly. “They ambushed us and held me hostage. Ser Jouret put a dagger to my throat and actually cut me, here.” She tilted her chin, exposing the thin scabbing red line right above where her heartbeat pulsed. “They threatened to kill us if we didn’t take them to find the treasure we were seeking.”

“How frightening. What happened next?”

“Ilorien had a pair of daggers; he threw one at the man holding me, and it struck its mark. Rémi-Matthieu dodged the other one, and a scuffle broke out. I managed to knock him unconscious, and we continued deeper into the passageway, solving the other puzzles.”

“Captain Rémi-Matthieu hurt your friend very severely,” Antonin-Pierre reminded her, as if she could forget. “Were you aware of this before you returned to the surface?”

“Yes. He gloated about having shot her while he held us captive.”

“And still you refused to use deadly force on him? Even when, according to your testimony, he would have killed you to get what he wanted?”

Delilah raised her chin proudly. “There is no treasure worth murdering for, regardless of its value,” she said, her voice hard. Among the raised seats, the audience murmured in approval.

“An impressive attitude, one worthy of any of Halamshiral’s chevaliers,” Antonin-Pierre said, nodding. “You sought out the treasure, tracked it down, fended off attacks while maintaining the highest standard for yourself…now the moment I’m certain we’ve all been waiting for since the word was first mentioned in this hearing. Did _you_ find the treasure?”

Delilah looked her lawyer in the eyes, ignoring the crushing stare of everybody else in the room. “No.”

“No?”

“The final room was empty. It had clearly been carved from the rock for _some_ purpose, perhaps intended for a treasure of some kind, but it was never filled. Or perhaps it was, and somebody else found it before us,” she lied. She lied as she never had before, and found herself hoping that Fen’Harel himself would guide her words to mislead this court. “Captain Rémi-Matthieu himself said he sent down soldiers to go find it, and found the same dusty, empty room.”

“I imagine that felt quite disappointing,” Antonin-Pierre said, his voice soft and sympathetic. She went with it, nodding emphatically.

“I’d hoped to recover some of my people’s history, but it seems it wasn’t meant to be,” she sighed. “It was all a waste of time.”

Delilah’s lawyer nodded gravely, then turned to address the judge once more. “I have no more questions, your grace.”

“Prosecutor, your witness.”

The chevalier’s lawyer stood, a faint smile curling is lips. “Thank you, your grace. Inquisitor Lavellan, tell me, do you regret the death of Ser Jouret?”

“Of course I do,” Delilah sad, looking a little shocked at the question. “Any death is reprehensible, especially one of an otherwise honorable man who was just following the orders of his commanding officer.”

“I admit, I’m not very knowledgeable of how the Inquisition handles giving notice to the families of its soldiers who fall in battle. Would you tell us how your organization goes about that?”

Delilah blinked, surprised at the tone of the questioning. “Generally, Commander Cullen Rutherford will write letters to be delivered to the families of fallen soldiers,” she explained. “For non-soldier deaths, as rare as they are, Josephine writes those letters.”

The chevalier’s lawyer quirked an eyebrow. “You don’t write them yourself?”

“I regret to say that my duties keep me from it, most days,” she said softly. “I do however make an effort to add a small personal note to each of the letters, especially if I knew the person who died.”

 “Do you plan on writing such a letter for the family of the deceased chevalier?”

“I’ve planned to visit them personally to beg their forgiveness, if they consent to see me,” she answered firmly. Still seated at the table, Sutherland nodded in approval.

“You said your duties prevent you from even writing letters. Do your duties not prevent you from spending several days sneaking through Halamshiral seeking out treasure? Is the Inquisition so strapped for money that it sent its Inquisitor to our city to scrounge for change?” he said scathingly.

Delilah drew herself up. “As I said, such a find would have been invaluable to the elven people," she said coolly. “My companions and I have been traveling around southern Thedas for the past several months, sealing off the remaining rifts in the Veil. The last one is just southeast of Halamshiral, we were headed there to seal it and stopped here on the way. Ilorien took advantage of our path and told us about the rumor he’d heard about the treasure in the hopes we’d help him find it.”

“So you put off your duty to the peoples of Thedas, and left them at the mercy of errant demons, for a _treasure hunt._ ”

“May I remind you the rift had been open for _three years_ already,” Delilah shot back. “If it hasn’t weakened and closed on its own already, it won’t far off from doing so, as the rifts as far north as Nevarra and Antiva have done. Three days weren’t going to make much difference.”

“Perhaps not to you,” Levasseur sneered. “But to the farmers in that area, it makes all the world of difference.”

“As I said. We were on our way.”

“And yet, you still put off your duties, not just for a treasure hunt, but for a _rumor_ ,” the lawyer continued, pressing the point. “As both you and Captain Rémi-Matthieu have said, you found no such treasure. Are you really content to have left defenseless civilians in direct danger from demons, just so you can successfully waste your time strolling through a garden?”

Delilah held his gaze unflinchingly. “The risks were grave,” she said quietly. “My companions and I knew the risks when we decided to try and find this treasure, and I judged the possible benefits to outweigh the risks. In light of our discovery, or our lack thereof, I acknowledge that I was wrong. I am not perfect, but I’ve tried to go about this to the highest moral standard as I could.”

"You repeat your 'high moral standards' with every breath, including how treasure isn't worth murder, yet your own companion slaughtered Ser Jouret," Levasseur cried, pointing a finger at Ilorien, who bristled. "What have you to say about that?"

"Ilorien is not a member of the Inquisition and can't be expected to represent us," she retorted. "It was self defense, and he saved my life. I fail to see what it has to do with this case."

“Wrap up your questioning, prosecutor,” the judge intoned. Levasseur bowed.

“I present for the court’s consideration, an Inquisitor who crushes anyone in her path, willing to break laws and bones to get what she wants, even at the cost of sacrificing her duty as Inquisitor,” he intoned, pointing a condemning finger at her. She stiffened at the accusation, but held her tongue. “She and her companions wasted three days on this venture when they could have decided to proceed to the remaining veil rift, as opposed to assaulting and murdering our city’s guards and chevaliers. None of them have denied the charges: entering the city under false pretense, breaking and entering, assault, murder. Your grace, I remain firm in my recommendation of filing the charges as listed and to their maximum sentences. All of them.” With a self-satisfied smirk, the man sat back in his seat next to Rémi-Matthieu, whose face had remained impassive beneath his mask.

Judge Lemoine tapped her gavel firmly upon her stand, then stood. The rest of the room rose to their feet as well. “This hearing is called into recess while I consult with my advisers.” She nodded to the first row of people sat in the raised seats, and half a dozen men and women of various ages rose and followed her through the door she’d originally come in through. Antonin-Pierre extended his hand for her to take, and he gently tugged her to her feet. “Come, we’ll wait in the same room we had lunch in,” he said over the babble of the audience filing out the main door for their own rest.


	18. Ends and Beginnings

“How long does it usually take an Orlesian court to come to a ruling?” Sutherland asked. Again, they’d been given a pitcher of water and a platter of tiny sandwiches.

Antonin-Pierre sighed. “On the average case, perhaps an hour or two. On more extensive cases such as yours…it could be a full day or more. The longest I’ve ever seen a ruling take to be decided was a week.”

Ilorien gritted his teeth. “I won’t wait here for a week for these blithering fools to decide our fate,” he exclaimed.

“I’d advise against calling the jury ‘blithering fools’ to their faces,” Delilah’s lawyer advised quietly. “But if it helps at all, I sympathize. I hope you know I’ve done my damnedest on that floor to keep you all from being shipped to the prison in Val Royeaux.”

“I know,” Delilah sighed. “Thank you. It’s just hard to just sit here and wait for our fates to be decided.”

“I understand.”

She picked up one of the delicate little sandwiches that had been brought in and examined it critically. Strangely white bread with thin slices of some pale green fruit inside, cut into perfect triangles. Orlesian cuisine never ceased to amaze and to some extent disgust her. She nibbled at the corner; for such a thin slice, the fruit inside was surprisingly juicy. How curious.

They waited in that room for what felt like enough time for the tenth age to have come into existence. Ilorien paced back and forth, looking increasingly agitated. Sutherland sat on a bench, legs crossed, eyes closed. Delilah went and sat next to him.

“Mind if I join you?” she asked softly.

“Not at all.”

She closed her eyes and steepled her hands just as she had seen him do dozens of times, but couldn’t seem to calm her racing thoughts. “Tell me…how do you meditate?”

He cracked an eye and gave her a faint smile. “How do I specifically do it, or how is it done in general?”

“Both, I suppose.”

He chuckled. “First I empty my mind, and focus on the sound of my breath. Imagine that your lungs are full of white light, and with every breath you draw the light in, and push the light out…”

He spent several minutes leading her in the meditation technique, his voice low and steady. After a while Delilah found herself noticeably calmer and clear-minded. She opened her eyes and gave him a smile. “Thank you,” she said quietly.

“It’s my pleasure.”

Across from them, the door to the room opened. “A verdict has been reached,” the servant informed them. “Please follow me back to the courtroom to receive the ruling.”

Delilah met the quick glances of her companions. Ilorien’s face was set in fierce determination, while Sutherland’s was calm and steady. The latter of the two gave her subtle nod of support, before they all filed out of the room.

Minutes later, everyone had sat back in their assigned places. Judge Lemoine tapped her gavel upon her stand to get everybody’s attention. “After a great deal of deliberation, this jury has decided upon a ruling in the case of Inquisitor Lavellan concerning the charges of conspiracy, breaking and entering, assault upon three chevaliers, the murder of one of the same, theft, and attempting a prison break.

“We have carefully considered all of the evidence presented here today, and come to the conclusion,” Lemoine said, her stern gaze heavy upon them all, “that the Inquisition did originally lie about their reasons for visiting our beautiful city. The Inquisition did break into one of our oldest government buildings with the intent to steal property that would be found on Orlesian soil, assault one of our guards, and did slay one of our chevaliers.”

Across the aisle, Rémi-Matthieu and Levasseur shared triumphant smiles.

“However,” Lemoine continued, “we have also come to the conclusion that neither party is free of blame. We are taking this into account as we decide upon the judgement to be passed.”

The grins slid from the two Orlesians’ faces as they processed this. Delilah leaned forward, eyes intent upon the judge.

“We have determined that, while the Inquisition _did_ lie about their intentions at the beginning, there are no laws concerning explaining why you visit a place. The charge of conspiracy has been dropped.” she said slowly. “While it may be a _moral_ issue, that’s an issue that is best judged between each individual person and the Maker. Or whomever you may worship,” the judge added, with a pointed nod at Delilah’s vallaslin. “As for the breaking and entering, with the intent to steal, that is _not_ a charge we have found to be inaccurate. And while your reluctance to use lethal force against the men stationed within is admirable, our law has no allowance of leniency because you decided to not break an individual law.”

Delilah nodded. She’d expected as much.

“As for the assault charges, we do find you guilty of assaulting Ser Andouin. In the assault charges against Ser Rémi-Matthieu and Ser Jouret, as well as the murder charge against the latter, we withdraw the charges under the condition that it was all committed in self-defense.”

Levasseur leapt to his feet, rage contorting his features. “You’re just going to let them-”

The judge snapped the gavel down upon the desk with an echoing _bang_. “Be silent or you will be removed,” she said coldly. He sat slowly, fuming. “May I remind the court of what we’ve discovered about our own captain Rémi-Matthieu? Attacking an Inquisition scout with insufficient provocation, torture, and neglecting to provide adequate medical care to an injured prisoner under your jurisdiction. Attempted murder of the Inquisitor herself as well as of her companion, Ilorien.” She fixed the chevalier captain and his lawyer under her hard stare. “You are not on trial here, captain, but you very well could be in the coming days. I advise you – as well as your legal advisor – to keep this in mind for the duration of this judgement.” The lawyer fell into a sullen silence at the thinly veiled threat.

“We find the Inquisitor and her companions guilty,” the judge continued, as if the man hadn’t spoken at all, “of breaking and entering, intent to steal, and of one count of assault. The Inquisition will pay five thousand sovereigns to the Grand Marshal of the chevalier order to pay for repairs to our training complex where you unearthed the passageway leading to the aforementioned chambers. Also,” she added, in a fractionally softer voice, “while we will not require this on a legal level, we do highly suggest you uphold your vow to visit the family of the slain chevalier. I would also suggest that, in the future, you consider more carefully leaping to pursue stray rumors you hear, regardless of how tempting the reward.”

The judge banged the gavel one final time with all the authority of the empress herself. “This payment is to be made promptly following notification of Ambassador Montilyet, who as I understand it has the leading hand regarding the Inquisition’s finances. Court is adjourned.”

The courtroom erupted in babble, and Delilah shared a relieved grin with her companions. Even Ilorien, who still seemed worried sick over Scout Harding, gave her a quiet smile. Sutherland clapped his hand heavily on her shoulder.

“Congratulations,” Antonin-Pierre said in her ear as dozens of different officials or whoever swarmed them, eager to discuss the trial and the verdict. “You appear to have gotten off lightly.”

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, clasping hands with the man. He gave a flustered smile and dabbed with a handkerchief at the sweat beading his upper lip. “I don’t know how we’d have managed this without your help.”

“Oh, believe me, it was my pleasure,” he replied. “Imagine what this case will do for my reputation! I defended the Inquisitor herself against one of the best prosecuting lawyers in Halamshiral!”

“Whatever your rewards, you’ve earned them. Now please, may we visit Harding? I’m eager to see how she’s recovering.” Delilah didn’t even have to look behind her to know Ilorien was craning his neck, desperately eavesdropping at the mention of the dwarf.

“Of course, of course!” Antonin-Pierre waved them towards one of the side doors, where he led them down a long and empty corridor. “This is close to the servant’s area, so most ‘normal’ people don’t go here. Excellent for a private exit.” Sure enough, when he opened the door, no crowds thronged like Delilah had feared they would. “The hospital is right around the corner of the building here. Would you like me to escort you there?”

“No need, we can make it. Thank you again. Please, if you’re ever in the area, I’d love for you to visit Skyhold,” she offered. “It’s as cold as a shaved halla’s ass, but the scenery is unparalleled.”

“I may have to take you up on that offer someday,” he replied, giving a chuckle at the colorful imagery. “But not today. Now go, I’m sure Scout Harding is eagerly awaiting news, assuming she hasn’t heard already.”

* * *

 

Lace was awake when they finally made their way up to her room. Her leathers and armor were piled neatly on a chair by the door, and she’d been clothed in soft linens.

Delilah was content to let Ilorien explain everything that had happened since they entered the underground passageway. He perched on the edge of the bed, and she could see from his body language that he wanted to hold Harding’s hand, but for whatever personal reason he made no move to do so.

“Wait, I don’t understand,” Lace said after he’d finished recounting everything. “You said you found the stash, but when the chevaliers sent men down to search for the chamber, they found nothing? Did they stop at the chamber with the abomination?”

Delilah shook her head. “I don’t know, honestly,” she replied. “But either way, there’s truly no treasure down there anymore.”

Shock crossed Lace’s face. “You didn’t destroy it all, did you?”

“Of course not,” Ilorien scoffed.

“Then how-”

Delilah reached into her pack and pulled out a small, plain, unassuming leather pouch, no bigger than her fist, and opened it. “Put your hand inside.”

Harding shot her a hard look. “If this is another prank…”

“It’s not. Do it.”

With a long-suffering sigh, the scout slipped her hand inside the pouch. And in…and in…all the way to her elbow.

For a moment, Lace just stared at what appeared to be her missing right forearm. She sucked in a breath, and Delilah jumped in before she could scream.

“It’s magic, your arm’s fine,” she said hastily. She grabbed hold of the pouch and pulled it back, and the dwarf’s arm slid free. Lace rubbed absently at the limb, staring at the pouch with abject loathing.

“What in the name of Andraste’s panties _is_ that thing?” she hissed.

“It’s enchanted,” Ilorien explained. “It’s bigger on the inside.”

“I can see that.”

“The entire stash is inside.”

“I-” She cut herself off, blinking. “It…what? It’s all in there?”

Delilah nodded. “All of it.”

“Maker’s breath. What all did you find?”

“Books, clothes, art, trinkets, jewelry, potions,” Ilorien listed off, ticking off his fingers. “A ton of tiny mechanical things which I have no idea what possible purpose they could serve…It was incredible, Lace. I wish you could’ve seen it with us.”

“I also got charcoal rubbings of the largest batch of elvhen writing to be found since the Temple of Mythal,” Delilah added.

“Well I’ll still see it, yeah?” the scout demanded. “You’re gonna unpack it all when we get back to Skyhold, yes?”

Delilah smiled, and clapped a hand lightly on Harding’s good shoulder. “Of course. I plan on inventorying it all and learning as much as I can about it before the Arlathvhen. Which I hope you’ll join me for,” she added, glancing at Ilorien. He looked flattered and relieved, and nodded gratefully.

“Good.” Harding leaned back against her pillows as if suddenly exhausted. “When can we return to Skyhold, anyway? I’m sure you’re eager to return to your Commander, Lady Lavellan,” she added with a wink. Delilah blushed delicate pink and waved the comment away.

“The doctors said you’re mostly fine but want you to stay overnight, just so they can make sure,” Sutherland piped up. “We can leave in the morning. Though I hope you ladies haven’t forgotten we still have one Fade rift to seal.”

Delilah clapped a hand to her forehead. “ _Fenhedis_ , I nearly forgot!”

“If it wouldn’t be imposing, would it be alright if I joined you all?” Ilorien asked quietly. “I mean, I don’t really have a home to go to-”

Harding cut him off, flinging her good arm around his neck and jerking him close. He sputtered and turned beet red at the contact. “Don’t you know? You’re stuck with us now,” she said cheerfully. She gave him a peck on the cheek, and his face turned purple.

“We’d be happy to have you, is what she means,” Delilah said, amused as she watched Ilorien struggle to speak. “Though with Corypheus dead and all but one of the fade rifts sealed, things aren’t going to be very exciting.”

“Are you joking? You’re the leader of one of the most influential organizations of the century,” Ilorien exclaimed, as soon as he’d recovered enough to speak. “That alone makes it worth the journey. Not to mention you’ll need help cataloging our find, and safely transporting it to the Arlathvhen in two years’ time.”

“This is all true,” Harding agreed. “I’m glad you’ll be sticking around.” She laid her small hand atop his, and while his cheeks flushed deep pink once more, he looked quite pleased with the situation at hand.

“Do you think they’d let us borrow a bed or two?” Sutherland asked. “I don’t know about you all, but I’m bloody tired.”

A rasping chuckle forced its way up Delilah’s throat. Harding raised an eyebrow at her, but laughed too. After a moment, they were all laughing, tears of mirth and relief both flowing freely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delilah and Ilorien will return for Nanowrimo 2018!


End file.
